


Insomniac

by ShadowedLove97



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anti Is His Own Warning, Beta Read from Chapter 8+, Blood, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gen, Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Mainly Jack's POV, Major Character Injury, Not Septiplier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Paranoia, Possession, Possessive Behavior, To get some perspective ;), Unreliable Narrator, Warnings May Change, With a little bit of:, mental manipulation, with a dose of:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-08-28 11:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowedLove97/pseuds/ShadowedLove97
Summary: There's something wrong with him. Sean knows it. So does Robin, Mark, his fans... Everyone.It's as if, as time passes, he's a parasite in his own body -- less like "Sean" and more like "Jack." Were the holes in his memory to blame? Or was it something more? Maybe, behind all it's sneering, that strange entity held all the secrets that were just out of Sean's reach...(Summary edited as of 7/11/2019)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Subtle_Shenanigans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtle_Shenanigans/gifts).



> Gifted to Subtle_Shenanigans because she's one of two fan authors that have been a huge inspiration for me when it comes to JSE stuff. I first stumbled into her Dissociation series/drabble colletion by complete accident when looking for Antisepticeye fanfics close to the beginning of this year, when I first got into Jack. In fact Glitching and Echoing were the first Anti fics I had ever read in this fandom. (I totally recommend them, by the way, along with any of her other fanfics. They're all really great!)
> 
> That said, I hope you all enjoy! This is just a short little prologue, and I can't promise a consistent upload schedule (I'm an autistic spoonie, so I run out of energy real easily and my life is a bit hectic and unpredictable), but I do have this mostly planned out, so I will finish this! I promise. :)

_ Something’s wrong. _

He feels it in his bones. 

_ Something’s wrong. _

He creeps forwards, light dim overhead.

_ Something is wrong. _

The bowl of the sink is faintly stained while his hands grip only white porcelain.

_ Something. _

His breathing quivers. Red drips into the basin below, splattering against the stains. A mirror hangs before him.

_ Is. _

He doesn’t look.

_ Wrong. _

But he doesn’t have to.

That something breathes down his neck, the air warm and moist against his skin. Sean breathes in tandem with it. Against his will. 

Slowly, against better judgement, he looks up and sees the red staining his lips and chin as it streams from his nose. He sees his own blue eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. But he only lingers on these things for a few moments. Just a few.

It’s the black eyes that he focuses on; they stare at him from behind, cold and unfeeling. As he stares into that gaze, something icy cold grips his chest. His breathing shudders. It’s suffocating.

His legs buckle out from under him and he hits the floor.

Just before he passes out a distorted laugh,  _ his _ laugh, echoes in his head.

Darkness consumes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to have this out way sooner, but because of what happened with Signe I had to rewrite the beginning of this and still have a couple of more things to rewrite before I can have a proper first chapter out. But I didn't want to let this sit any longer since I've literally had this planned for months, so here we are. Sorry for the short length. I promise that full chapters will be way longer than this.
> 
> If you see any grammatical or spelling errors, feel free to point them out! I don't really have a beta for this so it'll be appreciated. 
> 
> Also as a disclaimer: this is NOT my Anti hc or theory on what he is or how he got there. This is just a fun concept I thought of when talking to friends.


	2. 1. Disoriented

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took! I had a really hard time rewriting chapter 1 because it was just so different from the original. I even rewrote the rewrite a couple times and there are several scenes I wrote for this that just got axed because they didn't work. Rip Dr. Iplier. Your cameo will be missed immensely. 
> 
> Anyways, like always I hope you like it! And again, this fic is unbeta'd so if you catch any spelling or grammar mistakes please tell me so I can fix them!

Pain is the first thing Sean registers when he jolts awake. It permeates his skull as an ever-present ache, like a migraine. Residual fear clings to the back of his mind – fear that usually only accompanies him after a nightmare. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to recall a thing. “What the hell?”

He pushes up against soft cotton to sit up, flinching as the pain in his head flares, and looks around (slowly, slowly, as to not aggravate his head more). The world is a fuzzy white and all too sterile; foreign but not quite empty. Curtains and beds and _people_ surround him, along with regular (and sometimes irregular) beeping and hum of machines. The strong smell of bleach burns his nostril, only a hint of lemon to mask it. Like LaCroix, if LaCroix made cleaning products instead of sparkling water.

Opening his mouth to speak, Sean finds the words strangled in his throat. It’s sudden and violent and he’s unsure as to why, when he could speak only just a moment ago. His heart pounds in his chest and the sound of it echoes in his ears. A thumping rhythm that is only drowned out by the machines around him.

His instincts scream at him; _escape escape escape escape escape escape--_ He couldn’t get it out of his head. His brain feels fuzzy, filled with a high-pitch ringing and static.

He forces himself to ignore it as he slips out of bed.

Warmth drips down one arm as he walks -- he’s not sure why, but can’t stop to look, can’t stop for anything. Everything was so white, he couldn’t be sure of where the exit was, where to go, where he had been, where he had come from. He exits one room, only to find an exact copy; more beds, except emptier and emptier and emptier. It’s cold and devoid of life and unsettles him to the core.

Where? Where did he go?

Footsteps echo -- his own? Or behind him? He speeds up. The footsteps do as well.

Something cold slithers it’s away around his wrist. With an undignified scream, Sean whips around. He pushes against whatever had grabbed him.

“Whoa whoa, Sean, Sean, it’s okay! It’s me.”

He stops.

“Robin?”

And then he realizes -- he’s not standing.

He’s not in that endless loop of beds.

The beeping of monitors and the chatter of nurses and the bustling of doctors as they attend patients surrounds him. His hand brushes against the soft cotton of a blanket. That vaguely-lemon-and-bleach scent is still there, but it’s not as overpowering, not as sickening.

“What…?”

It’s not hard to hear the confusion in his voice, but it doesn’t last long. Not at all. It never really did, he had years of experience with it after all; being in one place, and then blinking to find that he was somewhere else entirely. But even still, disorientation clings to him like vertigo as he can’t precisely place where he was despite how _obvious_ it had to be. As if the word were stuck just out of his mental reach.

“You okay? You zoned out on me while we were talking so I tried get you out, but then you started freaking out.” Robin stands next to his bedside, frowning with his arms crossed over his chest.

There’s a moment where he’s not sure what to do, torn between telling the truth and keeping his friend from worrying more -- Robin knew of his memory problems, most of his friends did, but would describing his experience worry him more regardless? But it’s just that, a moment. “Yeah, I’m alright. Don’t worry dude, it was just a memory lapse again.” Jack smiles and it’s bright and carefree and _disarming_ , the sort of smile he would use when meeting fans or in some of his selfies. Open and friendly, but not quite right here. “You wouldn’t happen to know where we are, would ya?”

He can see it -- the way Robin opens his mouth before closing it, the furrow of his brow as he takes in the words, and all the little tells in between -- the question and disbelief hanging over his friend’s head. It’s there, almost palpable, and for a second Jack doubts his own efforts. But only for a second as Robin finally replies, “ICU. You were in an accident or something?”

“ _Accident?_ ” A furrowed brow and a disbelieving smile, Jack takes a moment to really think about it, let the dread settle before brushing it away with a shake of his head. “No way. What kind of ‘accident’?”

“Well I don’t know the specifics, but something like a car accident? Hit and run? They wouldn’t really say.”

_An accident. Hit and run._ The words reverberate in his head over and over and over. _Accident. Accident._

“No.” Jack shakes his head again. “There’s no way—“ It’s probably desperation that makes him hold onto that denial, or maybe it was fear? Fear of….what? He couldn’t place it. There was a part of him that wanted it to be false, an elaborate prank regardless of how cruel it would be. But when he looks up at Robin again there is no hint of deception; no snicker or crinkle of his eyes or a mischievous glint. There was nothing but a worried expression of a friend whose seen his highs and lows and everything in between.

And so, for the first time since he woke up here, he really looks around and takes in what he sees. Finally notices his right arm, bound in bandaging and secured tightly against his chest, or the way IVs tug at his left as he reaches to touch his right. Notices the violet bruises slinked across his skin or the strange tightness around his chest and abdomen similar to that of his bandaged arm. Feels the chilly cold of the oxygen line hooked under his nose and the rough cotton of the hospital gown against his skin.

“Sean?”

Two watery stains blossom on the blanket covering his legs. Two more blossom soon after, dripping dripping dripping, creating warm trails down Sean’s cheeks. He sniffles, sucks in a breath, and pulls up one hand to wipe away the tears but only creates more of a mess as they smear everywhere. “Fuck.” It’s not eloquent. It’s not pretty. But not everything was pretty, and not everything could be summed up in a Shakespearean way. Especially emotions too messy to express with more than a simple swear.

\----

Later, later, after Robin has gone back to his hotel and Sean is left in the care of his doctors, he’s escorted to the bathroom one last time before bed. It’s peculiar, the feeling of deja vu, as he steps in alone. Maybe it’s the emptiness in his chest, the emotions having leaked out with his tears. Or maybe it’s that familiar buzzing in his head as he stares into the mirror, stares at his worse-for-wear reflection. A reflection that still miraculously looks like him, despite the injuries (well on their way to healing), despite the lack of his usual smile or cheerful demeanor.

But worse-for-wear is better than dead, and it’s that sort of thought that finally brings back the smile to his face. He’ll recover. He’ll heal. He’ll be okay. And that’s all that matters now.

So he shakes off that impending sense of deja vu and the tendrils of negativity that had clung to him and goes about his business. Soon enough he’d be back to his life. Soon enough he’d be out of here.

Finishing up by washing his hands, Jack leaves his reflection behind as he steps out of that bathroom and back to the ward.

With that reflection, a word lingers there. Decaying, decaying, rotten in its totality. **_Li̵a͘r._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should also say as a warning that, because of the nature of Jack's memory plot that disorientating scene shifts like the one in this chapter won't be super uncommon. They won't be every chapter, but they're intrinsic to this plot by nature. So if they need to be warned for tell me (comment or PM) and I'll start warning for them.


	3. 2. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, back again with another chapter :D It seems like I'm somewhat keeping a schedule of one chapter per month, so hopefully I can keep to that! I hope you enjoy and, again, if you see any typos or grammatical errors feel free to let me know! 
> 
> Also, if you were wondering, I was listening to the Natsume Yuujinchou soundtrack while writing this chapter. It really only fits closer to the ending, but if you wanted to listen to it then I totally recommend it.

“What’s up fellow gamers? It’s me, your boy, Jackspedicy. Coming to you live at the--” Coughs swell in Jack’s chest, interrupting his playful intro and breathless laugh-- “at the local hospital. By jaysus.” He curls up, just slightly, so that his free arm is trapped between his chest and the white blanket covering his legs. He then wrestles it out to lift up that hand once more, lifting one finger up as a sign for the camera (and Robin, whom had taken a step forward in concern) to wait. The pain that had pushed up against his ribs subsides a moment later. “Sorry, I’m not in the tip-toppest shape at the moment as you can plainly see. Um,” he chuckles, it’s quiet and trailing and not at all full, careful to not cause another swell of pain in his chest. “It’s a long story, and I don’t want to get too into it? I was in an accident and I’m making this video to assure everyone that I’m fine. Your boy may not be indestructible, but he is at _least_ damn near immortal. Hey, what’s that look for?”

Robin snickers just behind the camera. Of course, laughter is highly contagious to him so it’s not even a moment later when Jack is laughing a little as well. “S-Stop that dude, c’mon! Trying to make an update video here.” Despite the words, though, he’s still smiling, still chuckling softly, until it all dies back down and they’re both calm and collected. “And I thought _I_ was the giggly bitch. Damn. Um.” Another short chuckle, “Where was I? Oh yeah. So back onto the subject of this video; I probably won’t be able to record for a bit? I have some stuff pre-recorded but I don’t know if that’ll last the whole recovery process. If I start running out of videos I’ll try and see if I can record but no promises there. So don’t worry, if I suddenly stop uploading I’m _not dead_. Maybe nearly dead, but not— no.” And again he interrupts himself with a laugh, “No I’m not gonna make that joke. Some of ye are bound to take it seriously. Anyway, I can’t do my full normal outro here cause I don’t want to pull anything out, but I’ll still see all you dudes in the next video. Take it easy y’all.”

——

Sean frowns, looking back up at Robin -- whom is also looking at _him_ expectantly-- from the laptop screen. “I...don’t remember recording this.”

“And you’re sure of that?”

“Yeah. When did we record this, exactly?”

“Uh, yesterday.”

“No, what _day_?”

Robin makes a slightly confused hum as he pulls out his phone, “Today’s what? Wednesday? So I guess Tuesday.”

He looks back down at the video, scrubbing the red bar back to start it over. Jack, the him from Tuesday, restarts his intro and rambles on. No editing out the coughing fit. No cutting to different takes. It’s just all him, unedited and untouched. The him from Tuesday. “A whole day and I don’t even fucking remember it. What the hell…”

“I thought you said that this happens all the time?”

“Yeah, _hours_. I’m used to missing _hours_. But a whole day?” He shakes his head, setting the laptop aside. “Nu-huh. Nah man. Not a whole day. This is new.”

“Well, what do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been to so many doctors that at this point I don’t really know if there’s anything _left_ to do about it.” He sighs, but doesn’t let himself dwell on that thought for long. PMA, after all. It wasn’t hopeless, and up until now he had been mostly fine. Especially because of his-- “Actually, do you think you could stop by my house and get my journal? It should be in my room.”

“Yeah, sure. What does it look like?”

“Thanks. It’s blue, small, and spiral bound.” He shakes his head, “Man, I didn’t really think I’d need it in a _hospital_ of all places but I guess I was wrong. You still have the spare key, right?”

Robin fishes around in one pocket and produces it a moment later, spinning it around his finger via the keychain. “Yep.”

“Okay, okay. No need to show off now.”

“Dude, if you think this is showing off then that’s just sad.”

“Listen--” But he can’t keep a straight face and quickly breaks out into a fit of giggles. “Dammit.”

“Y’know we’re doing this bit and we’re not even recording right now?”

“I know, I’ve just been so damn giggly lately and I don’t know why!”

Robin snickers, “Maybe the pain medicine is making you all loopy.”

Slouching as dramatically as possible, Sean lifts up one arm and slurs, “Well, youu tell me doctor. Do I sound...even a _bit_ loopy te you?”

They laugh again, lost in their own antics and small pieces of normality.

And then the moment is over, gone as quickly as it had appeared. The laughter subsides into quietness, a comfortable kind of quiet, but quiet all the same. Sean lowers his arm, Robin starts heading towards the door, and all returns to their reality of the hospital.

“Wait.” It suddenly hits him, and he’s not sure how he hadn’t thought of it sooner, “How long are you planning on staying? It’s already been like a week.”

“Uh, well you get out in the next couple of days right? I was thinking of staying for another week once you’re out.”

“You sure? I can’t imagine it’ll be all that fun for you.”

“Yeah man, it’s all good. Besides, I’m sure there’s something we can do together while you’re recovering.”

Maybe it’s his expression, or the way he sits back up and doesn’t answer right away, but something prompts Robin to speak again. A small reassurance. “Really, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” Sean is grateful for it all the same.

“If you’re sure then...do you want to stay over? The hotel can’t be all that cheap.”

All it took was a moment and a slight shift in expression for Sean to realize he had said something strange. A furrow of his eyebrows, a funny look to his eyes, a smile that looked almost more like a grimace -- Sean knew them well enough. “...I already invited you to stay didn’t I?”

“Yeah. When you gave me the spare key a couple days ago.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? I know you said that this is normal but that can’t be good.”

“I don’t know man.” And he didn’t. He really didn’t. The frequency that it was happening lately was frightening. But this was just a small slip, not really something out of the ordinary for him, right? “I’ve just been a little spacey lately. But I’m sure it’s fine. It’s just the medicine messing with me or something.”

Robin looks at him oddly again, but this time he doesn’t get a chance to say anything else, “If you say so. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Sean nods, watching his friend go, before being left on his own amongst the bustle of patients and doctors around him. He plays with the hem of the blanket, twirling it around in hands until it’s so bunched up that his feet stick out at the other end. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. And yet he grabs the laptop again regardless, opening it to the Youtube video once more.

He scrubs through the video again and again and again. He watches all the little quirks that make up him -- the way he speaks, moves, laughs, gestures -- that he _knows_ he does, but can’t remember doing. Watched watches watches.

By jayzes it was like he was watching an actor. Or a really convincing piece of 3D animation. Or a really realistic puppet, moved by invisible strings. But not him. Never him.

Is this what it felt like to his fans as they watched him talk and joke and laugh? Is this what it felt like? Like they were watching a snippet of him and nothing more? A cardboard cut out of him? Just one facet that they could never peer deeper into?

Like the Jack in the video and him, _Sean_ , were separate people?

He slams the laptop lid closed, as if he were closing the tracks to that train of thought before it spiraled out of control. _Don’t dwell._ He then stuffs it back into its case and slips out of bed. _Don’t dwell._ Holding both the strap of the case and the IV stand in one hand he makes his way towards the nurse’s station. _Don’t dwell._ (Since he had graduated to just the pain medication, the only thing stopping him from really walking around now was his strength, or lack-thereof.)

“Hey, would it be alright if I just took a small walk around the hospital? I could really use exercise right now,” he asks, putting on his sincerest smile. _Don’t. Dwell._

A nurse with blond hair and kind eyes (Stacy, he thinks her name was) looks up at him from her work computer. “Yes of course, go right ahead. Do you need a nurse’s aid?”

“Oh no, no I’m fine. It’s just for a short walk. I just can’t stand sitting in bed any longer. Feel like I’m going insane, y’know?”

“I totally understand, it’s not easy being cooped up in one place for too long. I suggest heading over to the hospital garden. It’s on this floor and it’s a great place to just relax in. There are even benches so that you can rest there.”

“Thanks, I think I will happily take that suggestion.” He holds up the laptop bag. “Would you mind keeping this back there with you until I get back? I’m not really comfortable just leaving this on my bed.”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t shove it onto the desk, really, but it slides further than intended and nearly hits Stacy’s station. “Sorry.” Sean smiles again but doesn’t linger, “But thank you. I’ll be back soon.”

His leave is hasty but he doesn’t dwell on it. Doesn’t linger. All he wants is to get that thought out of his head, that maggot of an idea that just kept burrowing further and further. It’s irrational; it’s stupid, obviously untrue. But he can’t deny the fact that the person he can’t remember being is completely and utterly a stranger to him compared to the person he consciously is.

It’s not long before the white of the hall fades into the green of painted vines and the red of faux flowers. It’s a welcome change (the white of the hospital was already ingrained in his head by now) even if it’s only paint. But then all it takes him is another few feet down the hall and he’s met with the opening to the garden.

The first thing he notices is the chirping of grasshoppers and the shrill song of cicadas. It’s played through a speaker, it has to be, but even so it brings back the familiarity of summer. Of warm days and warm memories and warm conversations. He walks along the winding path, takes in the green of the grass and of the leaves of bushes and of the few trees planted there. He slips his other arm out of its sling and brushes bandaged fingers against foliage as he walks. The plants rustle at his touch. Somehow, it brings a smile to his face.

Other patients linger around the benches with loved ones, but despite being extroverted he decides against bothering any of them and opts for an empty bench under a lone tree near the back. He takes a moment, leaning against the back, and allows himself to relax. Closing his eyes, he only focuses on the environment around him. Let’s his thoughts fall away into nothingness, and let’s everything else be consumed by the singing of insects and the crisp smell of foliage.

And, for a moment, all is calm.

**_“Şeá̷n̡~”_ **

He shoots straight up as the voice glitches in his ear. It’s electric and sing-songy, almost if not outright mocking, and worms its way into his brain. “H-Hello?” Twisting in his seat, he looks around but finds no one, hears no one. Not even the sounds of the singing cicadas. “Who’s there?”

**_“Did ͠y̡ou forge̛t about̵ m̡e̢, ͟Se͢a҉n?̵”_ **

Standing, Sean looks around again, this time electing to round the bench and head towards the tree where he spies a figure just under it. “What?” The voice is familiar, he’s had to have heard it recently, but he can’t place it. Can’t place why it stays with him like a parasite.

**_“Did ͢y̵o̷u?̵”_ **

“What are you talking about?” He takes another step forwards, but wobbles as pain bursts in his skull. It’s like a vice, squeezing against his temples, threatening to crush his head.

A giggle -- contorted and loud and _wrong_ \-- crawls up his spine like static to a TV. **_"S̶o wea̛̕k̕.̧"͟͞_**

“What the hell..?” He spins around, tries to find where the voice was coming from now, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

**_“Şe_** _á̷_ n.”

He jumps, a strange sense of deja-vu washing over him, and jerks out of the hold. But the sudden movement only causes him to lose balance, the world tipping as he falls back--

“Whoa, whoa, easy now.” And then he's caught, two hands on his shoulders as he's gently helped back up.

“Robin?” Sean wants to laugh in relief, really, he does, but a wisp of paranoia still clings to him that he can’t quite shake. “What are you doing--”

“I need you to stay calm for me while I get a nurse.”

His heart rate quickens, “Why would you-- Oh fuck.”

Blood drips down as he holds up one arm. The sensation of liquid warmth against his skin is familiar and, vaguely, he recalls that memory (dream?) of wandering through the halls, endless, endless. In his panic he must have ripped out the IV. Panic from… From what? His mind blanks. What had just…?

“Hey, hey. C’mon, you’re alright.”

“No, no it’s not-- I-I’m fine, it’s not from--” His gaze trained on a patch of grass just behind Robin, he tries to think, remember what had just happened. “I… I think I was just talking to someone?”

“Sean, I know you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but I need you to listen to me.” Robin’s staring at him intently, he can feel his gaze boring into him, concern dripping from his voice. “When I found you there wasn’t anyone else there.”

“What?”

“There wasn’t anyone else there. Could it have been a lapse and you were talking to someone earlier?”

“I--” He thinks back, tries to recall the words spoken to him. Something about forgetting…? “I-I don’t know.” Finally his gaze levels with Robin's, and with as much confidence as he could muster, he says once more, “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that we'll be out of the hospital setting soon! I just didn't want to rush it. And then things will really start to kick off. ;)


	4. 3. Home Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally home from the hospital, Jack and Robin struggle with figuring out how to spend their last few days together before Robin has to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with chapter 3! (Or chapter 4, if you're like Ao3 and consider prologues the same as chapter 1). This time it's a breather chapter, but don't worry it's not a filler. I just felt like it was time for things to settle down a little.
> 
> I actually had to split this chapter up into two parts because if I didn't it would have been pretty long, so next one is also still sorta a breather chapter. Sorta. Haha. 
> 
> Also this chapter is from Robin's POV. I think it's good to get out of Jack's head a bit, for perspective's sake. That said though they were originally going to be one chapter, the next one is from Jack's POV. It was going to be from Robin's as well but it's better suited for Jack's.
> 
> Oh and one more thing: if Jack seems a little OOC, if that makes sense, then well haha. That was on purpose. :)
> 
>  
> 
> ** = Flashback transition  
> \--- = Normal scene transition

How long had it been since him and Sean had last properly hung out?

Robin peaks over from his food station in the kitchen, setting down a bag of cheese as he does so. Jack sits on the sofa, legs curled up next to him and his back to Robin, staring at the TV. They were watching Game of Thrones, or they were supposed to be, but Jack was suspiciously still and quiet. Considering how spacey he had been lately (especially after the incident at the hospital) Robin wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't paying attention at all.

With a sigh, Robin goes back to the sandwiches.

That was the problem now, wasn't it? However long it’s been, it’s been way too long. But with Jack like this, well... He supposed that, in the end, it meant he’d have to make these last few days the best days he possibly could. Especially since it would do them  _both_ some good to just relax and not think.

He swirls the mustard in a yellow circle, not really for any reason at all, and sets the other piece of bread on top. Then he moves on to make another one, a half this time for Sean whose medicine had been messing with his appetite.

And that would have to start with making their sandwiches right.

“Hey, you wanted turkey right?” When there’s no answer, though, he frowns but doesn’t immediately move. “Sean?” When there’s no answer again he sets down the sandwich meat and rounds the small counter. Definitely spacing out again… “Jack, hey. You hear me bud?”

“Huh?” Surprise laces Jack's voice as he twists or at least _tries_ to twist around. Instead, halfway through, he winces and doubles over. Instinctively grabbing a pillow, he jolts his legs up to trap it between his chest and thighs while his journal falls way onto the sofa cushion. (To help with the pain, Robin remembers vaguely, or that's what the doctor had said.) “Fuck.”

“Sorry.” Robin sits down on the opposite end of the couch -- just on the arm -- apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t mean to make you turn like that.”

After a few breaths, Jack uncurls a little and looks back at Robin (this time without turning). His fingers twirl a still-attached piece of thread between them as he speaks. “It’s fine. Not like you were the one to break ‘em. Fucking bastard.” A sharp snap and Jack breaks off that thread from the pillow still against his chest. He plays with it between his fingers, wrapping it around and around and around, gaze never leaving it as he favors it over eye contact with Robin.

“Hey,” Robin starts, swinging his legs around so that he was sitting on the couch proper. Maybe this wasn’t the best time, but he couldn't let it lie now. Jack was coiling the thread around his finger, tight enough that it whitened the skin that it choked, while glaring at no one in particular. Maybe he'd get snapped at (odd, for Jack, but a possibility nonetheless), but to leave him like this without even trying to ask if he was okay felt wrong. Was wrong. “Are you-“ 

But even as he speaks he only manages to get a couple of words out before he's cut off. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“You’re-“

“I’m sure. Let’s just drop it, okay? I’m fine.”

It’s definitely a dismissal, and quite frankly it wasn’t that unexpected, but something about it doesn’t sit right with Robin. Maybe it was the tone of voice, or the way he wouldn’t quite look at him, but it unsettles him in ways he never thought one of his best friends ever would. Besides, if anything, he wouldn’t word it like that. Wouldn’t be so harsh with it enough that it would sting a little. “Sean-”

“Anyways, why we’re you trying to get my attention earlier?”

“Uhm.” He flounders, not expecting the sudden change in topic, and takes a second to collect his thoughts. This was going nowhere, and he didn't want to end up in an argument. “I wanted to know what you wanted on your sandwich.” So he guessed he'd just have to let it lie for now.

“Roast beef.”

“Wha- Are you sure?” It really shouldn't surprise him, small things seemed to slip easily from Jack’s memory, but somehow it still does. He chews on his lip thoughtfully, just for a moment, before continuing on. “I, uh, I thought you said you wanted turkey earlier.”

“Had I?” Somehow, it’s not really a question. “Well, I changed my mind.”

“Al..right then. Roast beef it is.”

This time all he gets in reply is a nod. The thread is left forgotten, along with the pillow, as he lays them aside and reaches for his journal again. Briefly Robin spies a sketched doodle hidden along the words on the open page – a rough doodle of a familiar figure with dark eyes and a large grin – but he quickly looks away a second later to respect privacy. That said, he really wants to comment on it (both on the picture and Jack’s lack of verbal reply) but decides against it. Whatever mood Jack was in, he wasn’t going to get through to him right now. So, instead, he stands and heads back to the kitchen.

It's odd, really. How Jack was acting. It was like there was something there, something he couldn't really perceive, in that strange mood of his. He's not sure what it is. Not sure what he needed to do to help him. Because pushing further wasn't working. But he was certain that Sean did want help, wanted whatever was wrong to pass. Maybe it was the pain, or the lack of things they could really do together because of his ribs, stitches, and sprained wrist. Whatever it was, it was obviously a problem.

He tosses the bag of turkey back into the fridge -- into the little drawer that held the sandwich meats and cheese -- and grabs the roast beef.

When he really thought about it, Jack acted like this at that time too: the day he was released from the hospital. Dark rimmed eyes, pale skin, odd emotions. The memory was so vivid still, like they had never left the hospital that day…

**

Robin steps into the ward, bag of clothes in one hand. Despite no longer being the ICU the amount of patients and doctors hadn't diminished at all; he still had to be careful as he walked through the aisle made by the beds as to not run into anyone.

There he was; third bed down, against the wall, sat Jack. Curled up and against the headboard, his journal rests in his lap and against his legs while he stares down at it. Robin goes to greet him, but when he draws close enough to see him better he stops short and hesitates.

Now, if there was one thing that Sean Mcloughlin was, it was not silent. Not at all. Of course, this was not to say that he was an obnoxiously loud person (really, he wasn't), but still he absolutely _radiated_ energy. Talking and doing were the only two things he really knew how to do well. If there was silence, Jack couldn't help but fill the void with noise, even if there was no one there to hear. And if someone was upset he'd rather do something to help -- even if it meant just chatting away or doing something absolutely stupid -- than to just sit idle and let them be. Sitting silent and still really was the antitheses of who Jack _was_ , even on a fundamental level.

And yet here he was, doing exactly that as he concentrated on his journal. Pencil scratching against the page, it moved more than Jack's chest did as he breathed. Almost as if the pencil itself was dancing. Vaguely, Robin wonders if Sean should be writing, but quickly shakes off the thought as he realizes it was no longer splinted. His wrist must have healed enough to use at least, even if it remained tightly wrapped in gauze.

Of course, there was always his stitches...

No, in the end Sean was a grown man who could take care of himself and Robin would respect that.

But, even with that thought, it still worried him just how quiet he was. Unable to take just standing there and watching any longer, especially now that he was noticing the dark circles under his eyes, Robin walks over with a smile.

"Hey, bud, how are you feeling now that you're not high off of pain meds?"

Jack looks up, wearing a peculiar expression. Eyes burning, mouth drawn in a frown, eyebrows pulled down -- if he didn't know him any better, Robin's first assumption would have been anger. But just as that thought crosses his mind, the expression is gone. It’s a quick transition – he smiles and his eyes twinkle like there was no problem in the world – so quick, in fact, that it leaves Robin off balanced and doubting what he had seen.

"Honestly I kinda miss it. Now I gotta actually deal with pain and all that bullshit." He blinks, gaze going to the bag in Robin's hand. "Oh hey, you actually brought me clothes!"

Odd. Suppressing a frown, Robin watches him carefully while he leaves the bag on the bed. It slumps without support, wrinkling the red fabric. "What, I was just going to leave you in that hospital gown, ass hanging out?"

"Well I would _hope_ not." He zips open the bag, pulling out boxers, pants and his Berlin jumper. “Damn I haven’t worn this thing in ages. Where did you find it?”

"Oh, it was buried in one of your drawers. I didn't know what to bring so I just dug around randomly until I found something."

"Huh."

Robin let's him sit like that just for a minute, staring down at the pieces of clothing. He wonders about the reaction but doesn't say anything about it. Of course, it might not really be about the specific pieces of clothing at all. Not really. Because, now that he thought about it, there was an issue with this whole 'getting dressed thing' that neither of them had brought up.

"Hey, Robin?"

"Yeah?"

It seemed like Sean had realized it too.

"I...might need help getting my shirt on. Y'know, because of my ribs?"

"I mean you could always just walk around shirtless."

"I could, but I don't particularly _want_ to." Sean goes quiet for a moment. "I was going to try it first on my own anyways, so I mean if you don't want to I could probably--"

"I'm just messing with you. I don't mind."

Sean smiles, it's faint but there. "Thanks Robin. You've been really helpful lately."

“Of course man.”

There’s a pause. Sean looks at him, looks as if he wants to say more, but he never does. Instead he leaves those words -- those words that _needed_ to be said -- voiceless and silent between them.

“Alright, let’s fucking _do this._ ”

***

It’s still the same as back then. Robin sees it still, the way Sean would sneak glances and hesitate whenever needing help, only to choke down words that he had been obviously about to voice. It was weird. It was definitely weird.

It was also worrying.

But he doesn’t know how to broach it, especially if all he was going to get in response is Jack’s dismissal like earlier.

With a frustrated sigh he flops the last piece of bread onto Jack’s sandwich and grabs the bag of chips from the cabinet. He then takes the food over, somewhat grateful that they already had their sodas on the coffee table.

This time he doesn’t have to get Sean’s attention in order for him to give him his food. When he sits down Sean looks up from his journal and smiles. “You’re the best Robin,” he says in his mock-cutesy voice, taking the plate.

“Oh I know I’m the best. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

It’s a light laugh, because anything more would definitely hurt, but it was there and Robin can’t help but smile at it. “Seriously though, thank you. It means a lot.”

“Dude it’s just a sandwich.”

“I know but you’ve been helping me out a lot lately while I’ve been pretty…” He trails off into quiet, but Robin doesn’t need the last few words to fill in the blanks. “It can’t be fun for you,” he finishes softly.

For a while he just stares at Sean and then his own plate, thinking, thinking. Had this been what he was worried about this whole time? Was there something more? Honestly, he didn’t know, didn’t think he could figure it out even if he tried. Not with Jack’s refusal to talk about it. But this at least he could help with. This at least he knew what to do. “Dude, we’ve been over this. I don’t mind.” When he gets no response, he continues, “If you’re really that worried about it though we could play some games? Um, call up Ethan or Mark or something?”

Sean looks up at him, blinking, not saying anything at all. It’s like he hadn’t considered that that was an option, or that maybe he expected a different response from Robin. Whatever it was, it falls away in a matter of seconds as he smiles and finally replies. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Robin smiles as well, leaning back with his plate in hand and sandwich in another. And at least for now he can say that he’s content with how things were going.

“…Roast beef?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! I'm making cover art for this fanfic and want to post it here, but not sure what is preferable. So a question to everyone reading:
> 
> Would you rather:  
> \- the art be a separate work on Ao3 that I link here  
> \- a link to the art on Deviantart or Tumblr  
> \- the art to be embedded in an end note  
> \- the art to be it's own chapter
> 
> Please tell me which one you prefer! I'm a little torn haha.


	5. 4. Home Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean finally confronts himself on what had happened in the garden the night before their scheduled game of Monopoly. Although now there seems to be a strange voice that won't stop plaguing him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to confess, I had this chapter mostly written out for awhile. I just wasn't happy with the pacing, so I've been revising it since then. I hope the pacing is alright now though! I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Also the title is inspired by the song "Home" by Nathan Sharp/NateWantsToBattle. It doesn't necessarily fit this chapter, it's just one of the few songs that I've been listening to for inspiration lately.

                Shadows caress his face like ghosts, engulfing him and the room in their totality. Sean tries to ignore them, staring blankly at the TV screen as it played some movie, reminding himself quietly that it wasn't real. That they were never real, just his mind playing tricks on him in the dead of night. "C'mon Jackaboy, they're nothing more than just some shadows."

                But it doesn't change a thing; it doesn't change that those shadows were _there_ regardless of how real or non-real they were and that they were only there at all because of his insomnia.

                Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he tries to count up -- _1...2....3...._ \-- but even as he reaches 20 he's no closer to sleep than he was at 1. God why can't he just sleep? Why did his brain have to be so ineffective at one of its most basic jobs? If Robin wasn't there, he'd probably have paced the length of the house by now. Back and forth, back and forth, just to see if maybe he could pass out somewhere along the way. But doing that would definitely wake up Robin, which would either annoy him or concern him and neither of those were appealing.

                So he sits there for who knows how long, until he's sure it's well past midnight and he can no longer sit still with those lingering shadows. It's then that he decides that, if he's going to be up, that he could at least take care of his stitches (as much as he trusts Robin, the thought of him helping with that, even touching them, made his breathing shudder with unrestrained and unexpected anxiety, so it was only right if he did it when Robin wasn't up or around).

                Body like lead, he pushes off the couch and starts walking towards the bathroom, heavy and dragging. If anyone could see him right now, he's sure he'd look like a zombie which in of itself was sort of an amusing thought. As zombie-like as he probably looked, at least he didn't have a craving for human flesh.

                God did he wish someone was up so he could share that thought. As it was, all there was were those shadows enveloping the hall and clinging to his heels.

                Quietly he reminds himself again that they're not real when he shudders at another touch. Relief only washes over him though when he enters the bathroom and flicks on the light, banishing the shadows from him, breathing easing up a little.

                When he reaches the sink he avoids looking at the mirror and works on unfurling the gauze. They fall in rivlets, coiling up in the sink and then again in the trash when he throws them away. He then works on peeling his shirt off, grimacing as pain stabs his shoulders and chest as he raises his arms above his head. Somehow he still manages without anything more than a few grunts. He then abandons it in the corner after.

                He doesn't take a moment or even stop when all the gauze is off his chest, _still_ doesn't let himself look in the mirror as he flicks on the faucet and cool water fills the sink. Bubbles erupt when he sprinkles soap in.

                Carefully he washes around the stitches using the soapy water and a washcloth, keeping in mind about what his doctor had said about not rubbing them directly. It's a mindless process that he eases into easily -- he snickers to himself as it only furthers his earlier zombie comparison -- and it's even therapeutic in a way as he lets his brain just shut off. There's nothing to think about, nothing to even say, nothing to do but this. The shadows, the lack of sleep, and the time all slip from his mind and the rest of the house just falls away. He's the only one here and the only room that was left was just the bathroom. Just. The bathroom.

                .

                .

                .

                .

                .

                .

                .

                But then, when he reaches to dip the cloth in the water again, he finally catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. It shatters the quiet moment, hitting him like the car that had landed him in the hospital. Water splatters all over his shirt and the sink as the cloth is dropped into the filled basin, his breathing shuddering. He's reminded of _exactly_ what time it was, that in several hours he and Robin would be hanging out with friends, that he'd have to talk and laugh and play a game and somehow manage to be present when he was dog-tired. That he'd definitely still be a mindless zombie for the rest of the day if he didn't get some semblance of sleep tonight.

                Those mind-numbing hours just keep stacking on top of him. All the hours he had missed of sleep tonight, last night, the night before then, and then with all the terrible sleep in between then and his first night of insomnia, the night of the garden incident as well.

                The garden incident.

                At the thought of it -- at the hazy and vague memory -- his breathing ceases completely. Distorted laughter and electric taunts, they were indiscernible between illusion and reality and that was the exact thing he had been trying not to think about this whole time. Sometimes he could still hear them, if he sat still in the quiet long enough and just listened.

                Because of his insomnia, he wasn't a stranger to hallucinations; the strange shadows, no matter how anxiety-inducing they could be, were his constant companions during nights he couldn't sleep but didn't have the energy to talk to someone or even record. Almost as if his mind wanted to keep him company. But the garden was different than that. What had happened back then was different than that. Even after a bout of disorientation he had always been able to tell that there had been a big lapse in the first place and even small ones he could catch easily once given the clues for. And as real as they were to him he usually had a grip enough on reality that he could tell when something was a hallucination or not.

                But even in hindsight he couldn't tell if either of those were true. The only thing he was certain of was that _if_ it was a memory lapse it certainly hadn't felt like one. But a hallucination? It was so vivid... Could it really have been one?

                Vaguely he recalls the doctors trying to get him to stay an extra night in the ICU right after that, after Robin had fetched a frazzled nurse and he had been led back to his bed. The garden had been practically empty then, save for a few lingering patients, but that's all he can remember. The smell of the garden had already faded from memory and save for that tree he can't quite remember what plants had even been there.

                And after that? Well what was left of that memory had been hard to hold onto as is. He's written and sketched it all down constantly since then, desperate to hold onto at least _some_ of it. Maybe it was a little obsessive, but there's something about forgetting that terrifies him. Like he _has_ to remember, like it was the most important thing in the world.

                He's never told Robin any of this, of course; not only was he worried enough as it was (when originally this was supposed to be a couple of weeks of just hanging out and catching up with  some recording mixed in), he'd probably think he was insane. And, well, he didn't want that. He was already doubting himself enough as is, he didn't need anyone else added on top of that.

                So even if it was just paranoia, or even he was just being irrational, he'll keep documenting it without saying a word as long as it felt important.

_B͝reathe you i̛diot._

                He blinks as the thought(?) invades his mind, finally noticing the stars that had littered his vision. _Oh fuck._ The gasp is deep and _hurts_ but it just proves that he's still here and present and, in the end, that's all that really matters. It takes him a second but he manages one breath after the other, and then another one, and another one. In and out, slowly but surely.

                Fuck.

                He had thought he had been handling it, but evidently not.

                He mentally kicks himself. The dreams (nightmares?) and then the immediate bout of insomnia straight after getting out of the hospital should have been a clue to that.

                _No, stop that. It'll be alright, you'll figure it out._ _You'll be fine._ He repeats this to himself over and over and over until it's pretty much a mantra alongside his PMA. It, along with the feeling of the smooth edge of the tub in his grip, grounds him and it's a few minutes later when he's finally calm. It's at this point that he doesn't want to move quite yet, afraid to break that sudden calm. So he gives himself a few minutes as he comes up with a plan for the following days. (Because obviously this was a problem, but he wasn't just going to sit around and let it continue to be a problem. That just wasn't him.)

  1. Get through tomorrow.



                                1.1 Try to drink a lot of coffee if sleep proves elusive.

                                1.2 Take a nap if he can if coffee doesn't work.

  1. Research, see if anything similar has happened to anyone else without any known mental illness.


  1. **_Do not tell Robin._**


  1. Try and stay positive -- it's okay to get kicked down, but don't stay down.



                So, with all of that in mind, he pushes himself up, dries himself off, and then reapplies the bandages. He takes one final look in the mirror and his reflection -- at first defiant of the panic it had initially caused only to shiver as he's taken by the sudden feeling of unfamiliarity -- before he shuts off the light and leaves for the living room again. Maybe he could get at least an hour of rest...

\---

                Somehow he manages two hours of light sleep, but even with it the following day results in a hazy mess. Despite that, though, he manages to stay positive because, in the end, no matter how tired he was he had plans for today and he wasn't going to let himself or his brain ruin it.

                "Wanna bet Mark's up?"

                Because even though those plans were simple they were still pretty damn important.

                "Huh?" Sean glances over at him, "I doubt it, but if you're thinking of calling him then I guess it's worth a shot."

                Robin shrugs and pulls the laptop towards himself from the coffee table. "I don't see why not."

                "Alrighty--" Carefully he gets up off the couch, being mindful of his still healing ribs and still-sore wrist, and heads towards the kitchen-- "I'm going to go and get some more of that good ol' dirty been water then while you call Fischfuck."

                From somewhere behind him, he hears a snicker, "'Fischfuck'?"

                "Hey! It's a term of endearment."

                The kettle is strangely heavy as he pours water into it, some of it splashing right back up and soaking his shirt in the process. He holds back a couple of curses and decides to then focus on _not_ spilling it any further, the stream of water pouring  from the tap like a waterfall.

                It ends up taking all of his concentration, so much so that he doesn't notice the water spilling over the top and spout and all over his hands until a familiar voice snaps him out of it.

                _"--if Fischfuck is a term of endearment, then what about Irish Bastard?"_

                The kettle nearly drops from his hands as he startles, the water loudly splashing against the basin of the sink and draining away. Somewhere, whether it be deep in the back of his mind or somewhere off in the distance of the house, he hears a faint and distorted giggle, mocking him. It grates on his nerves but he somehow manages to ignore it as he reminds himself that, with how tired he was, it was probably another hallucination. Besides, he didn't want to dwell on it and end up moping around all day. Not like yesterday (which, admittedly, was sort of spotty).

                He sets the kettle down and shuts off the water. "Who're you callin' an Irish Bastard?" Sean shoots back, drying off, well, pretty much everything at this point.

                _"Well, who are you calling Fischfuck?"_

                "Okay ladies, settle down now. You can both work this out over some coffee, pizza, and a nice, simple game of Monopoly."

                There's silence but it doesn't last long as Sean is (unsurprisingly) the first to break it. He muffles his laugh through the cloth he holds but it's still loud enough to be infectious as Mark is next. Robin is last, unable to keep straight-faced as Mark bursts into laughter in front of him over Discord video chat.

                Somehow, Sean is able to laugh despite the pain in his chest this time.

                "Y'know, nice an' simple is _not_ how I would describe Monopoly."

                _"Yeah! It's **at least** friendship-ruining."_

                "Eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to, nice, friendship-ruining. What's the difference?"

                "I'm pretty sure there's a _huge_ difference, actually," he points out as he picks up the kettle again.

                Mark seems to say something in agreement, but the conversation slips from him as he concentrates on where to put the kettle. Which was...

                ...

                Oh.

                He blinks, the stove and the kitchen as a whole finally registering in his field of vision, nearly dropping the kettle in the process as his concentration on _that_ slips momentarily too.

                _...Maybe Robin should be making the coffee,_ he thinks as he sets the pot on an (already on) burner.

                But even if he knows this somewhere deep down he really doesn't want to bother Robin again. Him and Mark are laughing, still going on about god knows what as he does this, and something about asking for help and interrupting that curls guilt (and anger, though for whom or what he doesn't know) deep within his gut.

                So he says nothing, despite his better judgement, and sets out to grind the coffee to prepare it for his french press. It's loud, grating -- internally he lightly jokes about how that's how it must feel like to watch one of his videos -- and he puts in way too many beans for how much he wants to make, but in the end it's fine. Because he doesn't interrupt them. Because it's a small task and, no matter how hard it was to complete when absolutely exhausted, it doesn't matter at all compared to what was coming up. He cares for having fun with friends more than a simple mishap with the grinder or with the water or even than a slip of his conscious memory vs muscle memory.

                Finally, after another few minutes of waiting for the water and the coffee beans alike, he’s able to pour the water in and steep them. The pouring proves difficult as he nearly burns his hands in the process, but he manages without incident. He then heads back over to rejoin the conversation while he waited for the coffee to finish.

                _“Wow, you look like shit.”_

                That anger curls in his stomach again, which makes his skin crawl. Why was he angry?

                _Pleasant͘  as a̧lwa̵ys._

                Sean blinks at the odd, passive-aggressive thought(?), unsure of where it even came from. Was that really how he felt? But he shakes it off a moment later, though it's not forgotten as he decided to figure it out in private later, and says, curbing his tone so it doesn't come out as harsh, "I know." He then adds with an attempt at a small, sheepish, smile, "But I'll be better once I have some coffee."

                _"I swear to god you worship that stuff."_

                He shrugs and looks off to the corner. Well, not quite "looks", but more his attention is pulled away to something moving; a shadow, familiar and yet somehow not. It’s gone the minute he turns his gaze to it. “Look man, I’m not exactly the religious type but if there was a religion dedicated to some sort of coffee god I’d join it,” he jokes.

                When he looks back, though, they're both eyeing him strangely. He's unsure as to why and, weirder still, for the first time in what would eventually become many he's put on edge by their prying ( _worried, not prying, worried_ ) gazes. "I'm just tired," he says, partly for himself, partly so that they'd stop looking at him like that.

                _"Y'know, we could always play Monopoly tomorrow."_

                "Yeah, it's really alright."

                Sean shakes his head. "No, I want to play it today. I can't promise I'll be any good at it--" he says this with a laugh-- "Considering, but if I'm going to be tired I'd rather spend it with you guys than being mopey about it. PMA, right?"

                They're both smiling at him now --Robin's small but sincere and Mark's crooked and bright. He can't help but smile back.

                _"Alright, if you're sure then let me see if any of the other guys are ready then."_

                "Sounds great. I am going to go and get my coffee."

\---

                It’s after another hour -- and one pizza delivery later  -- before the other guys are ready to play. By then Sean’s practically dozing on the couch, his half-drunk and cold coffee cradled in his hands. He’s not quite sure when the conversation had slipped from him again, or when the other guys had joined them, but when he hears his name and a greeting he looks back over at his laptop and gives a small wave along with a tired smile. They (Mark, Wade, Bob, Ethan and Robin) talk then for awhile, catching each other up on their busy lives, with Sean joining in on the conversation on and off, whenever he focused his attention enough to do so.

                He’s so tired, but it’s not bad somehow. Before, whenever he was all alone, it was a cold sort of tired -- devoid of life aside from him, the house was silent and solitary and brought no sort of comfort during the long hours -- but now he wasn’t alone. Now, with the chatter and the company, and Wade’s complaints or Ethan’s nonsense laughs or whatever mischief his friends easily got into by just talking alone, it’s a warm sort of tired. Like he’s being hugged, or he was wrapped in a blanket, fireplace in front of him and a hot chocolate in his hands. _(It’s vague -- most of his childhood was lost to him due to his memory problems -- but no matter how vague he still remembers that same sort of warmth he feels now. Remembers a real fireplace and remembers his family even if he can’t remember why they had all gathered and remembers feeling so happy he could have cried but didn’t.)_

                “C’mon Jack, it’s your turn!”

                But no matter how warm it is, no matter how content, no matter how tired, he couldn’t dwell on it. There was a virtual capitalistic war to win, after all. And that took no warmth at all.

                “Alright, alright. Calm down so the master can show you how it’s done.”

                He rolls a 4, of course, because Monopoly’s a bitch, and lands on income tax; bringing him down from 5.24 million dollars to 3.24 million. To further add insult to injury, it couldn’t even give him a double so he could roll again. Everyone laughs as he grumbles over it, but he can’t be angry at them and almost laughs himself. Almost.

 _“Thank you for the introduction Jack,”_ Wade says after they’ve all settled. _“Now let the **actual** master show you how it’s done.”_

                Wade’s not much better off, rolling a 7 and passing Go, but still managing to land on income tax as well and voiding his 2 million pay-day.

_“Oh come on! This game hates me.”_

_“Says the man in first place,”_ Bob shoots back.

                “Yeah wait a minute; I’m the one in last place here,” Sean says. “You’re the one with 9 million--”

 _“10 million, nearly 11 million,”_ Mark interjects.

                “Right, 10 million dollars. All I got is 3!”

 _“To be fair, some of that was just bad playing on your part,”_ Ethan says.

                “Okay, but can you blame me? I’m running on a couples hours’ sleep and a few cups of coffee. The fact I’m playing at all is pretty damn amazing.”

                This time it’s Robin’s turn to talk, “I think he’s got you there.”

_“Alright. And who’s fault is that, exactly?”_

                Sean knows it’s just a joke, a common retort they always shot at each other for banter -- it’s not like Wade (or was it Mark? Ethan? None of them sounded similar but it was hard to keep up when so tired…) meant any harm by it. But still it rubbed him wrong, like--

_“L͘i̛ke̢ ͜t̕h͏e̵y̛ don’͏t ̵e̶veņ ̶c̷a̸r͠e̛,̡ r̷ig̵ht ͏J͢ac͞k̕ab̛oy?”_

                Somehow Sean retains his dignity enough not to scream, but still the garbled voice is _right in his ear and he can feel breathing down his neck but he can’t move, can’t do anything--_

_“Lơơk ̕at them̢, ̕pla̴ying the͢ ̶g̛amę w͡it͘ho͜ut̴ ̴you͏. Not ̶even ͘b̧ot̕h͢e̛rįn͠g ̡to̕ ͘ch͜ec̢k͝ if you’re͏ ͡oķąy̸.”_

                Jack wants to scream 'of course they’re not checking, they’re right there, they can _see him_ on the face cam' but when he actually looks, actually checks his laptop, it’s true. They haven’t checked, haven’t noticed, **how haven’t they noticed--**

_“But ҉t̷hat̢’s f̨ine̷.”̵_

                The paralyzing fear turns into something more as the world blurs.

_“̢I͏ ͞k҉n͜ow ̷o̶f som̨eth͝i͡ng b͢et͡ter̨ we c͠a̴n̢ ̴d͜o.”_

                He can’t keep his eyes open. Can’t stay focused. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to do _something_ because all of his instincts are telling him not to fall asleep (and yet somehow, too, they’re saying the opposite -- saying it’s okay, it’s safe, he can trust it, he needed the sleep -- and it all jumbles around in his head). But he can’t find his voice, can’t even raise a hand to let them know.

                And, as the world blurs away into darkness, the last words he hears echo in his ears:

_“S̛weet̢ ̕d͝r̨eam̧s.”̸_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pace should pick up from here on out, so I hope you all stick around. We're finally out of the "rest" period, as I like to think of it.


	6. 5. The Start of Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm finally back. Sorry for missing last month's update. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble for some reason, even though I've been planning on it for a long time. That said, since it is on the shorter side, I'm going to try and upload a second chapter this month as well, to make up for the missed update and such. 
> 
> Anyways, now that things are heating up I'm going to be putting warnings at the bottom of the chapter. So if you need any warnings, please scroll down! Zalgo translations will also be on the bottom and I'll be going back in older chapters and adding those as well, since I realized zalgo can be pretty hard to read sometimes.
> 
> Also I redid the tags as I wasn't happy with them originally. They used to be accurate, but as I've slowly developed this whole thing in the back and seeing as how the characters (read: Anti) don't want to cooperate with the very original idea from the start, well I deleted some of the offending tags. I hope this isn't too much trouble for all of y'all!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! As always, if you see any grammar or spelling mistakes then please point them out. Otherwise just sit back and enjoy the ride.

        Sean jolts up, gasping, only to curl in on himself as pain shoots through his chest and down his spine. Dipping and heaving, his surroundings are blurry, out of focus, causing nausea to crawl up his throat. Fearing he might vomit, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to make himself more motion sick.

        After a few minutes of sitting like that, he cracks open one eye and peers out. But the room still spun and dipped and, when he makes to uncurl, pain still zaps his chest and spine. "Fuck." 999. He needs to call 999.

        This time more gingerly, he uncurls fully and looks around. He thinks he's in his room.

        But his phone certainly isn't when he checks the sheets and the side table and they both come up empty.

        So he stumbles out of bed and somehow makes it to the door. He has find Robin.

        The hall that lay before him is dark, familiarly so. Like when he had gone to the bathroom to take care of his stitches, along with something else. A different memory he couldn't quite grasp: a dark hallway, bathed in red. A mirror, just out of reach.

        It’s then, as he tries to remember, that warmth drips from his nose and onto the floor. He doesn't bother to stem the bleeding, doesn't have the awareness for it. It's just a nonsense sensation adrift in the sea of his pain.

        "Robin?" His voice doesn't carry as it usually would as he makes his way down the darkened hallway. But even that stifled volume sends waves of pain through his lungs. "Robin?"

        The only response he earns are whispers, worming their way into his ears, into his brain, saying _‘your fault’_ and _‘you deserve this’._ It makes his skin crawl and his hands itch to tear them off, to make it stop.

        His fault for what? Is this that creature’s doing? It must be, right? Those words from before -- from when he were trapped helplessly on that couch while whatever it was had haunted him -- were intermingling with the others. It quickly overrode them, until each and every single whisper sounded just. Like. It.

        His breathing stutters at the memory (somehow still so vivid even though it should have faded by now) and the cruel words. He curls a hand up to his chest, clutching at his shirt. “Shut up. You’re not here." Not real.

        But they don't quiet. Instead, the whispers grow more intense, more frequent, until they might as well be white noise. Thick in his lungs, the air is dense with them. It weighs down on him, palpable against his skin. He feels the walls close in on him as he walks, rejecting him. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

        Now, more than ever, he’s sure that this wasn't his home.

        It's then, at that realization, that the world gives another heave and Sean pitches forwards, smacking his shoulder against the wall. His body giving up, he slides down onto the ground. He needs to move, but can't. Needs to find Robin, but can't. Needs to get to his phone, but can't. Needs to escape, but can't.

        It's right there. The living room is just right there. And yet he can't even move.

_“͏Y̧ou̴ real͞l̶y ͜are **p͠at̕͠h̨e̛͞t̵͡i̵̵̡c.** Wha҉t happ͘en̢e͝d̛ ̷t̵o͞ yo͘u?”_

        A complicated rush of fear and confusion and anger floods him. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare, but his head is jerked up anyways by a grip so firm he’s certain it was going to break his jaw. Staring into its acid green pupils, a name takes over the whispers from before. It pulsates into his brain like an all-consuming migraine, so much so that he fears it’ll be the only thing he’ll hear or think ever again unless he speaks it. “An...ti…”

        It cocks its head, insect-like, but says nothing.

        "Anti..." He says again, this time with more strength. Although he's not sure why he bothered to utter it.

        Again, no response.

        Unnerved as it's gaze burns holes into him, Sean tries to squirm away but is locked in place. A wicked smile twists its expression then and it lets go, causing him to crack his head against the wall.

        Laughing, the creature stands up. _“I̡d͝i͝o͝t. ̨We͞re you̢ alw̶a͠ys̢ ̨th͢is ͠s͜t̷u̴pid͏?”_

        Sean rubs the back of his head and makes to stand as well, struggling in the process. When Anti doesn't approach him, doesn't make to hurt him, the fear evaporates some though he still steps back. Annoyance, though, sparks in its place. _Another_ insult. _Another_ implication that, whatever it was, that they knew each other without giving explanation. Wasn’t he just an hallucination? So why was he saying these things? And why did it makes him want to scream in frustration and curl up in a hole just to get away all at once, regardless of how contradictory those two things were?

        “I’m not an idiot and I’m not stupid,” he retorts, despite his instincts screaming _danger danger danger_ at him for doing so. “What the hell is this even all about? What was the point of bringing me here? Did ye just want ta torture me? Is that the fuck it?” Giving himself a moment to breath, he pauses and tries to reign in his emotions. This was bad. This was _definitely_ bad. But he needed answers, they were imperative. Even so, he consciously softens his tone a little, his bravado wavering somewhat as Anti says nothing and just stares. “Are yeh even real? Because the only person who seems to be able to see or hear you is me. Otherwise I would think that Robin or any one of my friends would have said something.”

        The moment those words leave his mouth, he regrets it. Tripling in intensity, the pain he had been feeling up until that point flares white hot and leaves him seeing stars. He barely catches himself on the wall, but it hurts so much that he’s not even sure if he’s still upright. “A-Anti—”

_“̢D̶o ̢not͞ c̵all҉ me ̨th̶at!”_

        His bravado finally shatters when he's slammed against a wall, pressure bearing down on his windpipe. His fingernails claw at the hand around his throat, struggling to get free. But he can’t get a grip, can’t dig in. Somehow Anti's hands are both barely tangible and yet altogether all too real.

_“W҉h͢at ͟r̕ig̶ht͏ ̷d̛o͡ ̧y͞ou ̕hav̨e͟ ͟to c͡al̵l͠ me ͝t҉h̶at̕ ̡af͜te͜r͞ ̢all҉ t̢he̡se ͏y҉ear͠ş? A͝f̢t̢er͢ ͢c̡o̴ns͟ta͟ntly f̢orc͏in̴g m̶e͟ ͟t̛ǫ go͟ ar͝o͞und̶ ̵an̕d͜ ͞a͟rou̶nd ͟i͢͞n̶ ̴̴ci҉҉͞r͡c͏̸l͏e̶s̵ ̵͠w͜it͞h̴ ̵y͢͞o͢u̷͘?̕͜”͡_

        His lungs burn for oxygen while Anti’s eyes burn in rage. It was all he could see. All he could feel.

_“An̶d҉ you͜ were ͢e͡v͢en c͝oc̶k͜y ̡en͢ough t͜o ͝que͝s̷t̸i̸on͘ my̡ exist̢ence. ̧W͠e͠ll͞ g̢u̧̕͝es̢s ̢͘w̵h͠͞a̶͢t?͝͞”̨͟_ Pupils melting into black, Anti leans in closer. His presence chokes out all other senses, leaving Sean with nothing but the horrid and visceral awareness of his existence. _“I͢’m a̶s real a̵s it҉ ge͘t͟s an̷d͘ n̷o̢t ̶e̷ve̕n y͝o͟ur wo̸͠ŗt҉̷̢hl͟͜e̴şs f͏̵̵u͏ck͝i̧͜n̨͟g̡͏ ̷͟͢‘͜͜҉f͏̵͡ri͏̕͢e̵͏n̴d͝s͠͏͟’͘ ̢c͟a̕n ̸h͠el̨p you now.̶”_

        Sean's heart pounds against his ribs, blood thundering in his ears. He tries to push away his hands again with the palms of his own hands but slips. Black spots his vision. While his lungs grew heavier and heavier, his head only grew lighter.

        Slowing down his struggling, strength flees his body. Darkness encroaches on the edges of his vision.

        This was it. He was dead.

        But then the pressure on his neck slackens. Anger fades into hesitance and another emotion that Jack can't place. The cold hands, disgusting around his neck, let go. He wrangles himself free then and lands with a thump, jarring his legs.

        Then, he _bolts_.

        He has to get away. It's all he can think about as he runs. If he doesn't Anti'll kill him. _(Except he let go. The only reason he was free right now was because **Anti let go.** [ ~~But did that matter?]~~ )_

        It's all a blur. Something jams into his leg -- it might be a side table. He hears a clatter as he trips and knocks over a lamp. Regardless of the stumble he continues to run anyways. The taste of copper coats his mouth while all he can smell is burning wires, electric in the air. His lungs burn so badly that he fears that Anti is somehow still choking him. All he can hear is static.

        Jamming his hand into doorknob, he wrestles with it until he hears a click and flings it open. He continues to run, feet beating down on stone, away from the house. Away from Anti. Away from danger. But he still smells metal. Can't get away from the feeling that someone is still behind him. Can't get away.

        Finally his legs give out when he hits pavement, scraping his hands as he tries to catch himself. Anti is watching him, he doesn't have to look to know. The air is thick with static, with his presence. _Fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He has to get up. Get up. Get up get up get up.

        Light blinds him then. He hears Anti shout something but he's not sure what. All he can see is the light as it draws closer. A horn blares. Jack braces himself, hearing tires screech. But it doesn't matter. The light engulfs him anyways.

 

 

 

 

 

        But there's no impact.

        Jack blinks.

        His hands sink into the ground, soft and plush. Warmth drapes his legs and slowly he realizes he's on the couch.

        A...dream?

        Sitting up, he looks around.

        His laptop (off now) sits neatly on the table. Neither the lamps, nor any of his side tables, were disturbed. He thinks he smells something meaty (bacon maybe) and hears someone shuffling around in the kitchen (Robin?) but when he shifts to get a closer look he flinches. Even if nothing is disturbed, his body still aches as fiercely as it had in the dream.

        His broken ribs? Or something else?

        He can't breathe.

        Once again, Jack bolts.

        The sky is white and overcast, dreary weather fit for such a situation. The air is crisp and mildew-y. Cold numbs the soles of his feet as he jogs down the path leading from his front door.

        "Sean?"

        Although it makes him jump, Jack just speeds up and continues on towards the road.

        When he steps off the path and reaches where he fell, he finds no blood and only faint skid marks. So a dream then...?

        Somehow, the skid marks still make him uneasy.

_"Yo҉u're go̧ing ̕t͟o̶ ͞b̧e̵ h̷it b͢y ͢a͘ ̧f̵uck̸ing̨ c̶ar aga͢in̨ if͘ ͘yoų don'҉t ̵m͡o͏ve̴."_

        Anti's face flashes across his mind. Feels the ghost of hands around his neck, constricting his ability to breathe.

        When he turns to fight him off he instead gets Robin, frowning and looking concerned and confused. He's saying something, asking him if he was okay and other various concerns that, quite frankly, Jack can't focus on at the moment. All he can focus on is Anti, who stood just behind Robin, off on the sidewalk, arms crossed and face devoid of expression.

        Jack's body itches to flee again at the sight. Maybe if he just ran a few miles then--

        "Sean, look at me!" Hands encase his biceps. Robin stares at him, seemingly desperate. "We need to move. What the hell are you even doing?"

        "I was..."

        When he looks back, Anti is no longer there.

        "Sean?" He looks back again, at Robin. His blue eyes search his, as if trying to pry into his head, his thoughts. Jack shudders and steps back out of his friend's hold, unnerved. "Uh, hey, come on. We need to get out of the road man."

        Concerned. He was just concerned. And yet, somehow, Jack can't believe it. Can't believe it at all.

        "Um what is it...?"

        Because he hadn't stopped Anti before, right? Because he hadn't even noticed when Anti had taken him away.

        "Nothing," Jack finally answers, and pushes past Robin. He doesn't apologize when they bump shoulders. "Nothing at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to credit both Subtle_Shenanigans and Pixiemage for writing some choking scenes that uh...stuck with me I guess? I don't know. Sorry this is probably a little weird. I just want to give a shout out as though I wasn't directly influenced, I'm sure indirect influence will still show up in my writing haha. Also they're both amazing writers and deserve some love!
> 
> The fanfics I'm referring to in question are #SamLives by Pixiemage and Static by Subtle_Shenanigans. Static is discontinued, but Static!Anti is delightfully creepy so it's worth it.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Violence warnings - strangulation.
> 
> Also a disorienting scene shift.
> 
>  
> 
> Zalgo translations in order:
> 
> “You really are pathetic. What happened to you?”
> 
> “Idiot. Were you always this stupid?”
> 
> “Do not call me that!”
> 
> “What right do you have to call me that after all these years? After constantly forcing me to go around and around in circles with you?”
> 
> “And you were even cocky enough to question my existence. Well guess what?”
> 
> “I’m as real as it gets and not even your worthless fucking ‘friends’ can help you now.”
> 
> "You're going to be hit by a fucking car again if you don't move."


	7. 6. The Seeds of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Anti on the prowl, Jack is left conflicted and confused on what Anti wants and who to trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Back again with the make up chapter! From now on we'll be going back to one chapter a month, I just wanted to make up for missing a chapter one month. So consider this this month's chapter and the last chapter the month before's chapter.
> 
> Also we're nearing the end of act 1. One more chapter and then we're heading into act 2! Also I promise Mark will be in act 2 more. I just needed to set the stage and who better to do that with than Robin?
> 
> Like before, potential TWs are in the end note along with zalgo translations. Thank you for reading!

           He’s not an artist, not by a longshot, but somehow Jack gets by as he sketches in his journal. This time it’s hands -- hands that he can still feel around his neck sometimes, tight and constrictive -- and a car, headlights blaring even on the thin sheet. Both sit along the margins with words sandwiched in between. Words detailing his dream(?), from beginning to end, though now he can only remember bits and pieces on his own.

           Mostly of Anti, anger so fierce that it were electric, as he strangled him. (And hands, hands so cold that they felt like that of a corpse.) And then of the aftermath, of Anti’s shift in demeanor as his gaze cooled and his grip slackened.

           Jack shudders at the memory, at the phantom hold around his neck, and pulls his collar up with one hand as if it were the best defense in the world. It didn’t matter if Anti let go. Not if he planned to torture him.

           It didn’t matter at all.

           It’s then that he feels someone’s gaze on him but he doesn’t have to look to know whose it was. Robin had been doing that a lot more in the past day or so; watching him out of the corner of his eye.

           Jack hates it. It makes him squirm. Makes him want to disappear under the scrutiny as it opens up a chasm in his chest and messes with his ability to breathe.

           So, he closes the journal firmly and slips it into his back pocket, slowly pushing himself up off the couch. “I’m going to go record,” he announces. It was the only excuse he could come up with to get away. (Besides, he needed to anyways, right? It was his job, after all.)

           “Now?” Robin’s voice pitches slightly, incredulous. Jack’s not sure if it’s out of concern or something else. Was he annoyed because it was their last day? “Uhm, but your ribs?”

           Jack shrugs, but smiles and says with his over-the-top accent, “Eh, I’ll be fine laddie. Didn’t ya know us Irishman are built to last? Jus’ down a couple ‘o beers and we’re right as rain.” He chuckles as Robin cracks a smile, though his eyebrows remain stubbornly furrowed. “I won’t push myself too much,” Jack says, dropping the accent for a more gentler tone. “I’m just out of pre-recorded shit so I need to do this.”

           At first, Robin says nothing. Jack’s fingers twitch to grab his shirt collar, but he resists as he waits patiently for a reply.

           “Fine,” Robin finally says. “Go ahead then. I’ll go and grab us some lunch while you’re doing that. Taco Bell?”

           “Oh hell yeah,” he says. Guilt gnaws at him, but this was for the best. Maybe it really was just paranoia, but he couldn’t stand Robin’s watchful gaze any longer. “Don’t worry, I won’t be too long.”

           Robin raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond otherwise, hopping up off the couch as well. Jack watches as he swipes his phone off the table, along with his wallet, and leaves the room.

_“So, you’re f͞ina͢lly se͘ei͞ng it҉.̶”̶_

           Jack tenses, “...Seeing what?” A weapon. He needs a weapon. Or maybe he could make it to the door? (And then what? Where would he go?)

           He feels as if someone is behind him, but there’s no breathing down his neck this time. No breathing at all. _“T͏ha̧t ̡he͢’s͏ ͘scum w͞ho do͘es͜n’t cąre͏ for yo͠u̢.͠ J͡u̵st like̴ ̶t͞ḩe ̶r̵est҉ ͢of̸ ̷t̕ḩe̴m.”͏_

_And you do?_ He thinks, but doesn’t dare voice it as he looks around the room. “He’s...he’s not scum, and he definitely cares.” Maybe too much. ~~(Or was it not enough?)~~

_“Lie͡ş.”_

           “I’m not lying.”

_“҉Yo̧u a̧rę.̢ ͢But̨ i͏f yo̴ư wa̷n̶t̷ t̷o l͞i͡v͟e ͡in de̴nial̴ th͟e͝n-̧-̶”_ His hand snakes down, around his shoulder and then up, getting closer _and closer to Jack’s neck-- “͘I͞’ll jus̶t̴ ͝ha͡v̶e̵ ͟to r̛e̵m̴ind̷ ͝y͟o̷u ǫf w͡haţ hę’s ̧don̕e.̧”͢_

           Jack leaps and swings the first lamp he gets ahold of. It crashes against the wall, going right through Anti. _“Shit.”_

           Before there’s any reaction from him, Jack makes a break for it. Past the shattered remains of the lamp, down the hall, and then finally into his recording room. He fumbles with it, but eventually manages to lock the door behind him. Almost certain Anti will somehow manage to get in anyways, though, he backs away.

           But, as he passes by the computer, it suddenly turns on, making a garbled sound as it does so. Glitching, the black screen is filled with red and green and static. He stops, now entranced as it fades a second later, leaving only a faint red and green outline. It was shaped like a man. A man who is staring straight at Jack.

           His instincts scream it’s Anti.

           With nothing else in the room, he picks up a lamp again by its rim, anxiety spiking. It flickers on, bathing his body in red as he looks around. He sees no one else. When he looks back at the video, the man is tinged red as well.

           He lifts the lamp up. And so does the man.

           It hits him then.

_Oh._

           The lamp falls from his hand, shattering the light bulb and inviting shadows into the room.

           He walks over to his desk but hears nothing, not even his own footfalls. Something crunches underfoot but he barely feels it.

           That was him. The scared, bitter, tired-eyed man was Jack.

_No._

           Placing one hand on the monitor, he leans over. Staring at it, staring at _him_ makes him want to vomit.

           He moves a hand. The man does the same. It’s like the time in the hospital, or whenever someone talked about an event he didn’t remember happening. There was a disconnect -- like his brain couldn’t reconcile the Jack in the video or the Jack during the holes in his memories as himself. Or, in this case, the reflection of himself, captured by his camera.

           It scares him. It makes his stomach churn.

_That’s not me._

_““͜Y̢ou͟’͘d really̢ ͝lov̨e̶ t͠o͡ t͢hi̷n̕k t̨hat̵, wou͜ldn̸’t you͝?͠ B͢ut ̸i̷t҉ ̨doesn’t mat̛ter ̴wh̡at͞ you w̧a̢n̶t̸.”͏_ Fingers curl around his shoulders, reminiscent of Robin’s own actions barely even a couple days ago, but different. Unlike before, it hurts, as if Anti were made of thousands of needles, pinpricks of pain against his body. _“T͞hat͜ ̧body͏ i͏s̕ st͢i͟ll yơur’s̨.”͘_

           Jack shakes his head, tries to move but is glued to that spot by force. That’s him? That’s his body? “I-It’s not. I’m not-”

_“B̡i҉t͞ter̛? Scared?̨ O̸h no̧, ne̸v͠er, **Sea̵ny-b͘oy͠.** Y͡ou’̧r̕e j̡u͜st ̧that͏ lou͞d ̛I͘r͢i̢sh ̴Yo͟u͟t̡u͞ber̡,̛ ҉aren’ţ cha͟? Know͝n͢ fo̶r҉ hi̧s̸ po̴s̢i͘ti͘v͡i͘ty̡,͝ ͘h̴i̴s ‘P̸M͜A̕’.͝”_ Anti spits the words out like they were bits of rotten food in his mouth. _“Y̛ou ̴co͝u͢ld neve͞r be ̧s̨o̵ ̛ha̕tefu͏l,͏ s̕o n̛ega̛ti͘ve̡.̶ I̴t’̛s ͜ben̡ea҉th ̢y̡ou͜.”̧_

           He feels sick. “Of course not. I can’t be positive all the time. I’m still human.”

_"T͡he͘n ͢w͢h͘at’s ̧t͝h̕e͝ prob̛lem͞ here͝?”_ He feels Anti lean over, pressing against his back. _“̛I͘ş ͢your ͜b̢rai̶n͜ b͢rok̛e͘n͡?̢ ̧O̕r̨ ̶m͡a҉ybe-͢-̶”_ Jack hears a snap and, against his instincts, looks over to see Anti staring at him with a smile and his head at such an angle that he was certain that he had just broken his neck-- _“͘You j͟u͏s̵t͝ don’t ̷w͡aņt̡ to͞ admi͟t̸ tha͏t̡ y̢ou͝ ͢hate ͝o̕ne o̧f yo͟u̧r̡ clo͢s͠e̶s̛t̵ ͠‘f̕rįend͞s’?”_

           Jack wrenches himself out of the hold, breathing so fast that he’s not even sure if he’s getting any oxygen, and grabs hold of the neckline of his shirt. “I don’t hate him! Why the fuck would I hate him?”

_“B͞e̸c͢aus͢e ̷h̴e̷ a̕band͝on͘ed͞ ̕y̢ou͏.̢ ͟B̶ec̸aưse͘ he͏ **̛l̴et͟** thaţ ha̕p҉p͟eņ to̕ ͏y͟ou.͝”̶_ Anti takes a step forward as Jack takes a step back. _“Dǫn’̛t̷ you ͘re̴m̡embe͡r҉?͏ ̶Or di͠d ͘y͟ǫu̶ ̸forgęt ͟lik̷e̴ you ̶alw̕a͝ys ̛do?͡”̧_

           “He didn’t abandon me,” he says, voice pitching and the words hollow. “And it’s not like he’s my caretaker or some shit. I’m a grown man.”

_“̡W̶ha͜t as̵to͘un͘d̡i͜ng͏ de͟n͞ial.͟ Yo̴u ca̡n ̸s̕a͘y ͘th̶a͢t ąl̷l ͢yo̡u wa̡nt,͠ ̧b̶u̷t̵ ̶we bo̵th kno̡w t̨h̛at̢ h͏e̸ ͝di͠d͟.̸”_ The other lamp flickers on, fizzling from a cool blue into a deep crimson as Anti draws closer. Static eats the computer screen and crackles in the speakers, filling the room with white noise. _“̕If ̸they had ̡care͡d, ̶th͜ęy͢ woul͘d̕ ̡h͝ave ͡c͠heck͏e͠d f҉o̵r͝ y̕ou͢. Espe̷cially̢ ͘h̨im̴,͜ t̷he͞ ̶o̶nly o͡ne̢ in͞ th̵e r̛o͟o͏m͜ ̨w̵i͢t̷h͘ yo͡u̶.͠ ̧In̢ ͝f̸a̛çt̡ y͘ơu̸’ve k͝now͝n ͢t͠h̵i͞s ̡sinc̴e͏ th͜e ̨beg̛inn͜i̵ng̷,̧ hav͘en̶’͞t y̢ou?”͏_

           Markers clatter to the floor as Jack backs into the whiteboard. He can’t argue, can’t utter a sound. Can’t find the holes in Anti’s words. It’s such a horrid feeling that he wants to vomit, like he were betraying Robin by staying silent. But the argument just isn’t there. “I don’t hate him. I don’t,” is all he can say.

           Anti laughs, _“̴J͟u͢s̶t̷ ad̵mi̶t̨ ̶t̷ha͝t you ҉d͜o̷.͏ Yo͜u͏’ll͞ b͘e̸ ͡b͢ętt͘er̢ ̴o̡ff͡ f͝or iţ.̷”͞_

           “No! Maybe I’m angry but that doesn’t mean I hate him.” Jack protests, slamming a hand against his chest. Despite the show of conviction, though, his body trembles, betraying the confidence he’s trying to project. His words are further undermined as he holds onto the whiteboard for support, feeling as if his legs were going to give out at any second. “W-Why do you care if he cares for me or not anyways? You’re the one who- who-” _Strangled me_ is what he wants to say, but instead the words lodge in his throat.

_“N͏i̢c͡e d͜ef͞l͞e͜c̡t̢i̛on,͜ but ̷įt ̛w͞on͝’͞t̷ wor͢k. Un͞le͘s͘s ͝y͜ou͡ wa̕nt ̸me ҉t̡o k̵iļl you,͢ ͠the̵n ͠I’m happ͏y ͟t̕o ͜ob̡l͘i̵g͠e͜.̛”_

           Jack shakes his head as Anti laughs again.

_“͢F̵in̢e, fi͘ne.”_ Pacing, Anti runs a hand through his hair. _“B̷ut r͘ea͜ll͢y̷ ͢you̢ ̧sho̵ul͘d͟ ̴b͜e̷ a͢f̷r҉a͘id of ̡thaţ ͠edit͘o҉r҉ ͞of ̛your͞s.̴ ̵He’͏s̢ ̸the one ̡w̨ho di͢dn’̕t h̨el͡p̸ ͘when ͜y҉o̷u҉ need͟ed͜ it m͟o͏st͝. And ͜yet̛ ̶he’͡s̡ ͢sti̢ll ̛he͠r͏e.͘ ͢Wh͝at͡ ̨fo͢r?”_

           It takes a second for him to reply, unsure if the pacing is good or bad. (Really, it felt more like prowling.) “It... doesn’t matter.” Jack swallows, “All I have to know is that the only thing here that wants to harm me is you.”

           The pacing suddenly stops and Anti’s head snaps towards him. Fuck.

_“S͘o͟ ͏th̕at’̶s ̵w͠hat you͡ think͘?̨”͟_ Anti’s eyes glint dangerously, glowing the same acidic green that colored his hair. _“T͘hę only ̕th̨i̷ņg͠ ̨I wa̷nt ͝is͠ ͢f̴or y͠o̸u̸ to giv̨e ̕m͘e ̢y͠o̸u̶r͏ ̡s̶ha̴re ͠o̵f the c͏o͟ntrơl.̨”̡_ Footfalls impossibly heavy sounding and yet leaving no trace at all, he stalks over.

           Meanwhile, Jack reaches for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. But he’s out of options, for what could he do against a being that wasn’t entirely corporeal?

_“And ̨if that ҉means I ̧h̨a͘vę ͡to̢ s̷ho̶w̸ you ju͏st ̶ḩow da̵ngerou̢s̷ this̡ ͞w̴or҉ld̸ ̷c͝an͢ be t̷o ̨a͜c͘hiev͟e̛ ̧tha̶t̵,̷ t̷h̛an͝ so be it͠.̵”_

           Shrinking back, Jack is blocked in. Pain pricks the underside of his chin and warmth oozes, fingernail (claw?) hooking under it.

_“E͟ven ̶i͞f̶ ̶tha̴t͘ me͡ans̨ I ̴have ̶t̛o ͟ex̨p̷os҉e͞ ͜j̴u͞s҉t ͞ho̡w̨ vile̕ ͢y̕ơur ‘fri̶e̸n͏ds̕’ ̕a͞re̕ ̛or o͏th͡erw̵is̵e ̸car̷v̧e ̕th͡at l͢e͡s͞s͜on i͢nto yo͢u̡ mys͞elf.̕”҉_ The pain drags down his neck, blood blooming along the trail. _“It’s all fine b̕y ͢m͏e͜.͏”͠_ It’s then, right over Jack’s throat, that Anti stops, hand hovering.

           Barely breathing as to not let the claw dig further into his skin, Jack searches Anti’s expression with confusion. His share of the control? What? “Anti, I-I don’t under-”

           Anti rolls his eyes and _yanks_ , tearing a curved line into Jack’s neck. Blood drips from one claw, splatting onto the floor. _“̡Oh s̴h̸ut͡ up. ̴I͞ ͟k͘no͜w y҉ou̧ ̕d͞o͞n̢’̵t͠.̢ But tha̸t̢’s fin͞e. ̵T͟he o͏nly̶ thi̸n͢g ͘you ̕n͢eed҉ ̴to̴ ͠un̕de̕r̴st͢a̸n҉d̵ ̵i̴s ͠that your͠ ‘͟friend͟s͡’ a̴n͠d͏ this w̴o͟r҉ld͜ ͘are̕ shit.̴”̧_ Anti smiles crookedly, teeth sharp. _“̕Th̕a̕t’s̛ ͡all̴.͢”͢_

           Collapsing onto the ground, he brings a hand to his neck. Ragged under his touch, Jack can only imagine the damage that’s been done. “W-Wha-” Jack sucks in a breath and winces. Tries to steady himself but can’t. Was this his ribs or was his throat torn open? “What’s the- the point in torturin’ me like this? H-How--” His chest heaves. It feels like he can’t _breathe_. “How does this- this accomplish anyt’ing?”

           When Anti drops down to eye-level, Jack flinches. He stares at his neck, as if he could see right through Jack’s hand. _“Oh͜ i͟t ac̸c҉o͡m̛p͢l͝i͏s̡h̡e̸s ͝mor͏e t͝han͜ ̵y̴o̸u k̕ņo͡w̢. ̴J̸ust w͘ai͏t͟ un̷til͜ ̷the̷ f͡in͞al̨e.”_

           He freezes. The world plunges out from under him. If he could barely breathe before, he was now _suffocating_. Was Anti strangling him again? He feels hands but doesn’t see them, knows Anti’s there but can’t hear him.

           Finale. Finale. Finale.

           It repeats over and over and over in his head like a broken record.

           Somehow he hadn’t considered it a possibility. Of course, up until that night, it hadn’t felt very _real_ either. And before, sometimes, it still felt like a dream.

           But that one word changes everything; shoots a dose of reality into the nightmare that had been his life for the past week.

           There was going to be an end to this. And that end only meant one thing:

           Sean (Jack?) would cease to exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:
> 
> Mental and Emotional Manipulation (including Gaslighting)  
> Cornering/Minor Injury
> 
> Zalgo text in order:
> 
> “So, you’re finally seeing it.”  
> “That he’s scum who doesn’t care for you. Just like the rest of them.”  
> “Lies.”  
> “You are. But if you want to live in denial then--”  
> “I’ll just have to remind you of what he’s done.”
> 
> “You’d really love to think that, wouldn’t you? But it doesn’t matter what you want.”  
> “That body is still your’s.”  
> “Bitter? Scared? Oh no, never, Seany-boy. You’re just that loud Irish Youtuber, aren’t cha? Known for his positivity, his ‘PMA’.”  
> “You could never be so hateful, so negative. It’s beneath you.”
> 
> “Then what’s the problem here?”  
> “Is your brain broken? Or maybe--”  
> “You just don’t want to admit that you hate one of your closest ‘friends’?”
> 
> “Because he abandoned you. Because he let that happen to you.”  
> “Don’t you remember? Or did you forget like you always do?”  
> “What astounding denial. You can say that all you want, but we both know that he did.”  
> “If they had cared, they would have checked for you. Especially him, the only one in the room with you. In fact you’ve known this since the beginning, haven’t you?”
> 
> “Just admit that you do. You’ll be better off for it.”  
> “Nice deflection, but it won’t work. Unless you want me to kill you, then I’m happy to oblige.”  
> “Fine, fine.”  
> “But really you should be afraid of that editor of yours. He’s the one who didn’t help when you needed it most. And yet he’s still here. What for?”
> 
> “So that’s what you think?”  
> “The only thing I want is for you to give me your share of the control.”  
> “And if that means I have to show you just how dangerous this world can be to achieve that, than so be it.”  
> “Even if that means I have to expose just how vile your ‘friends’ are or otherwise carve that lesson into you myself.”  
> “It’s all fine by me.”
> 
> “Oh shut up. I know you don’t. But that’s fine. The only thing you need to understand is that your ‘friends’ and this world are shit.”  
> “That’s all.”  
> “Oh it accomplishes more than you know. Just wait until the finale.”


	8. 7. Falling Outs and Paranoid Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Jack finally have their much needed talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, this is a long one so buckle up. Well sorta long. Also I apologize; someday I'll eventually get to the "hurt/comfort" portion of this fanfic. I swear!
> 
> As always, TWs are in the end note, though there really aren't any content warnings this time.

                When Sean comes to himself, he’s still sitting under the whiteboard. Something itches against the skin of his neck and, when he reaches for it, it’s smooth under his fingertips.

                Bandages. The same as the ones around his stitches.

                He frowns, sitting up fully now, and looks around.

                White noise still spills from the speakers and speckles the screens of his computer. Shards of glass from the broken bulb litter the floor by his feet and lamp, while the other sits nearly undisturbed by his hand. When he makes to stand, he jostles the markers by his legs.

                It’s weird, it’s all so weird -- coming to with bandages while everything else remains as it once was -- and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

                He grabs at the bandaging again, running a thumb along the many ridges, considering them. It’s brief, but a memory flashes in his mind’s eye as he does so; remembers how Anti had torn open(?) his throat without so much as a thought. As if Jack didn’t deserve even that.

                Shuddering, he looks around once more but again sees no sign of Anti. Had Anti...left? And the bandaging…

                Removing his hand from his neck, he walks over and cautiously creaks open the door to his recording room and peaks out. When he’s certain no one is there, he steps out and heads to the door across from him and to his right -- the bathroom.

                The door is open when he approaches and the light on. Blood stains the sink basin and faucet handles and strips of bandaging hang down off the counter or limply in piles. Some of them are bloody, but others are clean and clipped short. Like the person (himself?) had a hard time gauging how much was needed.

                Sean steps back, doesn’t have the heart to look in the mirror right now, and retreats from the room. He should go back to inspect his wound and clean, but he can’t. His feet don’t listen to him and his chest is so tight it feels like it’s about to burst.

                This recent blank spot in his memory teases him, dangles implications just out of his reach.

                It disturbs him.

                With a new sense of urgency, he dashes down the hall towards his living area.

                Once there he leans against an armchair that he doesn’t remember disturbing, catching his breath, and surveys the area. He takes in any and all damage, looking for any sign of Anti’s presence. All he sees is the broken lamp and misplaced furniture with no Anti to be found.

                He should be relieved. He really, honestly, _should be relieved_. So why wasn’t he?

                A thought freezes him to the floor. Feels eyes on him but no one is there when he twists around to check. No, no. That’s just stupid. Anti wasn’t here. If Anti was here, he’d attack him, taunt him. He could never seem to resist.

                And yet, unable to get it out of his mind, he checks anyways. The kitchen, the bathroom, the closet, the upstairs: he checks them _all_. There are no breaks, no stalling, even when he knows he should because of his still-healing ribs. No. He wasn’t taking any chances. And with each checked (empty) room, his panic evaporates a little bit more. The lingering sense of Anti’s presence fades and, when he checks the final guest room, it’s like a weight is lifted off of him.

                So Anti wasn’t here then.

                Somehow he doesn’t know how to take that.

                He touches his neck again, wariness and exhaustion overtaking him. Somehow none of this feels real.

                The stairs creak as he walks down them, concentrates on the smoothness of the railing as he trails his hand against it. Clean, normal, the stairway corridor was separate from the rest of the chaos. As he steps down his little Roomba hits the side of his foot. Despite himself, Sean can’t help but smile at it as he gets out of its way.

                Walking slowly, he enters his room. He strips off his shirt (feels a little more at ease now that he’s not wearing his own blood) and grabs a hoodie from one of his drawers. PMA. Ironic.

                He slides it on and enters the hall again. It’s not long at all, takes him only a couple of steps until he reaches the entrance to his deck, but he savors every second. For a moment he debates stepping outside, but decides against it. At least for now. Didn’t want to chance anyone seeing him like this, when he was still clearly frazzled.

                A few more steps later and he reaches the entryway. Placing one hand on the doorknob to his front door, he hesitates there. Seeing just a glimpse of the living room through the nearby archway is enough to give him pause, reminds him that the normality of the situation was all but an illusion. That the house that lay beyond was neither tidy nor separate from the space he was currently in.

                God, he really should clean up.

                But, even if it’ll just serve as a constant reminder of what had happened, or otherwise cause Robin worry later, he can’t make himself do it. Can’t summon up the energy. It’s just too much all at once. From the scattered glass and disorderly furniture to the blood in the sink _(his blood, splattered against the basin and on the floor of his recording room [where he’d definitely have to clean up or otherwise fans would see it and he couldn’t let them see that, couldn’t let them **know** \--])_ it… It would all just be too much.

                But he’s not just content with standing there either, or flopping down into bed and letting the rest of the day (night? How long had it been since Robin had left?) pass by him all the while fearing Anti’s return. Just sitting by, helpless? It just wasn’t him. Either the paranoia would get him, or otherwise he’d go stir-crazy.

                Other than cleaning, though, there wasn’t much to do.

                He tightens his grip on the doorknob while the other hand fiddles with the collar of his shirt, unsure on what to do. He really, truly, wants to be productive, but he just can't think about cleaning.

                Running his thumb over the side of the doorknob, feeling out the shape of the lock, it’s then that he gets an idea.

                Swiftly he locks the front door -- first the doorknob, then the secondary lock -- and moves on to the sliding door back near the start of the stairway corridor, making sure to secure the windows along the way. Even if Anti could defy locks, at least he felt productive. At least he felt a little more safe.

\---

                The light dances on his face as Jack sits on the floor, back against the table, controller in his hands. He focuses on the screen, on Wander as he flies across the plains while riding Agro, and on where to go. It’s intimately familiar, bringing back some of the only memories he has as a teenager, and altogether comforting. Safe.

_But ̡ho̴w sa̡fe ca͞n y͞ou̶ really be̡?̷_

                His grip tightens around the controller. His memories are safe, unlike the present. The living room -- which was now only partially cleaned up with the glass cleared and the lamp returned to it’s spot -- and his recording room, still messy, still bloodied, were the opposite. The only peace of mind he had of them was that the windows were at least now locked.

                Even still, though, slowly but surely, his house is being tainted with Anti’s inherently dangerous presence.

                For a brief moment he squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it. He’s sick of the anxiety and paranoia, sick of Anti’s constant invading presence and sick of the taunts and jeers and laughs. So, even if it’s only for a few minutes, if it’s only a semblance of safety and comfort, he tries to focus on the game, to be engulfed by it. Somehow, he’s already fighting a Colossus even though he doesn’t remember initiating it yet.

                The way he fights is almost rhythmic: climb, stop, stab, stop, stab, stop, stab. Then repeat. He clings to it as he centers himself. Repetitive, familiar, unlike Anti, who shows himself when he wants, does what he wants. Forever unpredictable to him.

                And then, just as he’s about to kill Gaius, he hears something just outside his window; the rumble of an engine, and the thunk of a car door as it’s closed.

                Wander falls off. The controller tumbles from his hands and thuds against the carpet.

                Jack stands.

_I wo͝nder who tha̴t coųl͘ḑ be._

                When he approaches the window, he sees Robin, waving goodbye to Felix while holding onto a bag of presumably fast food with one hand. Something curls in his stomach at the sight. He crumples the black drape in his fist and tries not to let the feeling linger but it’s heavy and boiling.

                Though he knew he had, he didn’t remember when Robin had left, didn’t remember as to why. He figures it must have been awhile ago, though, as he notices the darkened sky. It was lighter earlier, when Robin had still been there. _(Before Anti appeared? He hadn’t been there during, after all. Would he have helped if he were? Would he have tried to do something?)_

_Of c͢o̶urse not̸. He hadn’t hel̵ped before, ha̛dn’t eve͝n notice͢d._

                Drape falling back into place, he let’s go and walks over and through the opening into the entryway. The hood pulls taut as he covers up his neck. Heat escapes as he unlocks and opens the door.

                It's oddly cold as he steps outside. His hand stays firmly on the doorknob, not wanting to stray too far out. He sees no one else, just Robin, in the darkening evening, Felix already having sped off. "Hey, was that Felix just now?"

                Robin comes up short. Jack suppresses the urge to frown, noticing the hesitance. "Yeah, called him. He decided to help with grabbing dinner."

                There’s more to it than that, but at this point it doesn’t really matter when he doesn’t want to get into it. So Jack just hums a noise of acknowledgement and steps aside to let Robin through. "That was nice of him." He hopes it doesn't come off sounding bitter. "Let's eat out back. It's a nice night out." And if someone saw, well, all they’d see was two friends hanging out and eating together, right?

                "Uhm," Robin eyes him strangely (or was he himself the one acting strange?) and steps inside. "Sure."

                Jack leads him out back, being careful not to let Robin see into the living room. He'll have to let him see it eventually, but it was better this way for now. "Didn't realize you were going out. What did ya get?"

                "Oh.” Something’s off with his tone, slight surprise peppering it. “Just some Taco Bell." Jack ignores it, knowing what that meant.

                "Sweet. Gonna have to work out a shit-ton after this, but it's worth it."

                "But you can't work out?"

                "Eh, I'll find a way without hurting myself. Even if it's just some light reps."

                They reach the deck in no time at all and elect to sit at the small table closer to the side of the house. Soft light illuminates the space around them as they get to eating, the light a warm, artificial yellow. Normally Jack thinks nothing of it, but tonight it feels wrong. Ignorant, even, of all the things he wants to say. Unfit for the scenario he was in.

                A buzz of anxiety swarms his chest at the thought and he jiggles his leg in response.

                "Hey," Robin starts, and Jack can't help but smile as it's through a mouth full of tacos.

                "Mhm?"

                Robin swallows. "Can I ask what's been up with you lately?"

                And, suddenly, both the smile and his appetite is gone. "What do you mean?"

                "Well. You've been acting really...odd. Kinda angry? Kinda not? Uhm." He pauses, just for a moment. "I don't know, sort of scared maybe? And the last time I tried to talk to you about this sort of thing you kinda, uh, shut me out and you're not usually...like that."

                Jack lays down his wrap onto the table, doesn't at all look at Robin when he stands, and walks over to the railing. The wood is smooth under his touch and the light here is stronger. In a way, it's a spotlight and he's standing in it with no script, no game or activity to commentate off of. Just him.

                He takes a deep breath, tries to shake off the feeling, and turns. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

                "You can't be serious. Are you lying to me right now or did you just forget?"

                "Excuse me?"

                "C'mon dude." Robin sets his food down as well. "You haven't been exactly subtle."

                "I'm sorry," he says on instinct, feels the guilt swell in his gut and the anxiety in his chest and the anger in his hands. Because he is. He _is_ sorry, wishes to the very core that he hadn't treated Robin the way he has been. "I am. But I'd rather not talk about it." But he can't let it go either. It feels like a betrayal on his part, but it felt like that with Robin, too, when he and the rest of his friends hadn't even noticed that night. Hadn't noticed when it surely had been obvious that Jack had been in trouble. Certainly they could have seen his panicked expression, the way Anti was grabbing him from behind as they all sat there and continued on with their game. Surely they could have noticed. ~~(But was it really that obvious? Had it even been entirely real?)~~ And as much as he wants to, he can't let go of that anger. No matter how much he tries, it just wasn't possible.

                "I know," Robin replies, and it's like he had known Jack would say this from the start. "But you have to know that we can't keep putting this off. And goddammit Sean, I'm really worried about you."

                His gaze flickers to Robin's, just for a moment. Dead set and determined, Robin sits there with a frown and furrowed eyebrows. His taco lay abandoned against its wrap on the table. "And if I say it's none of your business?"

                "You made it my business when you started treating me differently," he says, and then softens his tone. "Y'know I'm not usually the type to do this, but I'm kind of at the end of my rope here."

                "Robin," he says, and it's a warning. "I told ya once and I'll tell ya again; I don't want to talk about this."

                Robin stands. "I know, but at this point we have no choice. Look, if this is 'cause of a concussion then-"

                "I don't have a concussion."

                That stops Robin in his tracks. "Okay," he says, drawn out and uncertain. Like he didn’t believe him. Or was surprised at the certainty otherwise. "Then what's got you so scared to talk about it? And what did I do to make you so angry at me? Because I can't think of anything."

                Jack sighs, shaking hands gripping the railing behind him. He can't do this right now. He can't. Not after tonight, not after what had happened merely a few hours ago.

                He pushes himself upright and passes Robin.

                "Hey, wait a moment!"

                Sliding door slamming open, Sean steps through. He hears footsteps behind him and the door closing, hears Robin as he tries to get him to stop, but he is not going to talk about this tonight. Maybe it was shitty of him, maybe it wasn't. But he just can't afford to right now. Not only is the prospect itself a little terrifying (who knew if Anti would interrupt because he heard?) but also it's hard enough to fight his mixed emotions as is. He wasn't going to open up a dam because Robin was too stubborn ~~(caring)~~ to let it go.

                "Sean, please."

                But then there's a hand on his shoulder, _too close to his neck_ , and he yanks away (the situation too familiar, how many times has he done this when Robin was just trying to get his attention?) breathing hard. "Don't!"

                "Whoa, shit I'm sorry. I didn't think-"

                "Don't. I know that you're just worried and annoyed and want to know what's going on, okay? I know. But I can't, Robin. The reason I don't want to talk to ye about this is because I- I don't even know if what happened is real. I don't even know if you could have prevented it. And I don't want to ruin our friendship because I'm being shitty over something that didn't actually happen. So please. Don't."

                Robin frowns, "Okay hold on. One: What do you mean you’re not sure if it's real? Two: You're not going to ruin our friendship because you told me what's eating you. It doesn't matter if it's real or not."

_Suc͝h̡ ̛a ͞lia̷r͠._

                Jack's sets his jaw and backs away. "I still don't want to do this."

                "I don't want to either, but you've left me no choice."

                "You're real fucking stubborn when you want to be, you know that?"

                "And so are you, but only one of us can hold out here and I can keep this up the rest of the night if I have to."

                They're staring at each other, stances set. It feels terrible, like these emotions were eating away at his insides until there was nothing left than a bloody, bloody pulp. This wasn't like him, this wasn't, and it's so obvious that it's painful. But he didn't know what else to do. Talking about it is like opening up a can of worms and he honestly, truly thinks that Robin didn't quite understand that.

                Or, perhaps, he did and he just didn’t care. He was just too caring when it came to his friends.

                And, as they just stand there, quiet and determined, he can feel his own resolve break down. Little by little. Because he knows if their roles were reversed that he would be the same way.

                And, really, he's just so tired of it. Just so tired of hiding all of it from one of his closest friends.

                "I don't want to be angry at you," Jack admits. "But when I remember it's all I feel aside from-” He stops himself. “Just, m'head's messed up from it and it’s really fucking stupid, but I can't stop it and I'm afraid he's manipulating me into it."

                "Who is?" Robin asks, voice soft as the fire is extinguished from it.

                "Some...man named Anti. He was here during Monopoly night. After I- I don't know if I really fell asleep, but when I woke up I was in my room. I was looking for you when I found him and he- he strangled me. And the only reason I’m alive right now is because he...let go."

                Robin visibly pales. Seeing the guilt and confusion on his face is enough to make Jack feel sick.

                "And you blame me for that...?"

                "No... I don't know. I told ya, my head's all messed up. I guess I'm angry that all of ye didn't notice in time or didn't wake me up. Maybe could've prevented it if ye had." He sucks in a breath, tries to steady himself. "But that's really stupid. You couldn't have known."

                "I wouldn't call it stupid," Robin says. "But are you sure it's real?"

                "That's the thing, I'm not. But my head and my reflexes and all that shit acts like it was, even if I know logically it probably wasn't. He's been laying it on thick that it's all ye's fault too which isn’t helping. And then there's-" He looks behind him, makes sure that he sees no one. "There was tonight. Anti was there again when you were gone. He... I'm not sure if I can call it 'attacked', but he got my neck again." He loosens the hood of his hoodie, pulling it down to reveal his bandages. "Woke up and my neck was like this. There was blood in- in the recording room too, and in the bathroom. _My_ blood. And I don't know any other explanation for this because you know me. Ye know I wouldn't..."

                "Okay. Okay.” Robin takes a deep breath, but he’s still visibly tense. Jack feels incredibly bad for it, for being the cause. “We'll figure this out, alright?"

                “How?” Jack twists the end of his hoodie in his hand. “You’re leaving tomorrow, aren’t ya? It’ll be difficult over Discord and text.”

                “I can always stay,” Robin suggests. “I don’t mind.”

                "No."

                Robin stops, blinks, clearly caught off guard. "No?"

                "No. I can't- I can't keep you here any longer. That's not fair to you. This whole week hasn't been fair to you. And I'm not going to let you waste your money on a plane ticket you end up not usin’." He already felt bad enough about it. Besides, the anger was still there, and it would be awkward otherwise. "I'll... I'll be fine. Worse comes to worse this is real and the cops'll get involved. Otherwise it's not and I'll be goin' into therapy. Either way I don't want to keep ye here for this."

                "Sean..."

                "Again, I'll be fine." Hopefully. "Besides it'll... It'll be..."

                He doesn't have to say it as understanding dawns in Robin's expression. "I get it."

                "I'm sorry," is all Jack can offer, his guilt a knife twisting in his gut.

                "No. No it's- it’s fine. Are you sure?" 'Are we still friends?' is what passes between them.

                "I’m sure.” After a minute, “We should probably clean up and head to bed now. So you're not late for your flight." He smiles faintly at this, hopes he conveys a 'Yes.’ to Robin’s unspoken question.

                Robin smiles back at that. “Yeah, probably.”

                The process is quiet and swift. They end up cleaning the living room and the deck area together but Jack doesn't dare near the recording room and the bathroom, leaving Robin to help with both. After he's done he shoots Jack worried glances but Jack doesn't acknowledge them. Just bids him goodnight.

                Then, they both part ways to their respective rooms.

\---

                Somehow, Jack is able to sleep that night. But it’s not restful as he dreams of arguments and blood and then Anti, standing over both as they bleed out from wounds in their necks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Robin is only doing his best. Also, that concludes Act 1. I hope you enjoyed, because Act 2 is going to be a doozy! (Does anyone actually say this anymore? Ahaha.)
> 
> TW:
> 
> Blood
> 
> Zalgo translations in order:
> 
> But how safe can you really be?
> 
> I wonder who that could be.
> 
> Of course not. He hadn't helped before, hadn't even noticed.
> 
> Such a liar.


	9. 8. Markiplier Makes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a chaotic day of recording Markiplier Makes, it's only natural that he chose to sit back and relax. But as he hops onto Tumblr for a little visit, Mark finds that something is amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Back with the start of Act 2! I thought we'd start with a little bit of Mark's POV, since we'll be seeing a lot more of him from here on out. 
> 
> Also my computer's hard drive failed last month, so I've been delegated to my laptop. I didn't lose anything important Insomniac-wise, but because I have a harder time editing and running a spelling and grammar check on here, my friend is kindly beta'ing for me! So a big thanks to unicornholly for beta'ing from here on out! Especially since she doesn't read JSE fanfics normally.
> 
> No warnings this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!

                Mark doesn't know what to do with this.

                "Do you want some help?"

                Which is to say that today’s filming is a disaster, as always.

                "No, no. I got this! I got this." He brushes off Amy with no more than a flick of his paintbrush...which is glued to his paper.

                Glitter falls haphazardly onto the already messy table.

                Of course.

                Off on their respective sides, Ethan snickers while Tyler complains about Mark's glitter intruding on his Macaroni art.

                Who said Markiplier Makes was an easy series to film?

                "Oh come on. There is no complaining on Markiplier Makes! Just doing."

                They were supposed to be making Macaroni Art today; something simple to honor the childhood tradition that, really, most children never actually did. Supposed to, being the key phrase.

                "If it helps any," Ethan intrudes, leaning over so that he can face Tyler. A piece of macaroni, somehow glued to his shirt, pops off as its squeezed between him and the table. It plinks onto the floor. "I think the glitter adds a certain...artistic quality. Improves it, if you will. Adds a little bit of shimmer."

                "Oh." Tyler says, as if he didn't expect it. "I still could have done with a little less."

                But, as always, there is no focus. Not only is it chaotic, it is also a rambly mess.

                "Okay, enough talking!” He slams a hand down on the table. It spills macaroni everywhere, clattering against the floor. “More macaroni-ing."

                "But Mr. Marky-sir." Ethan looks up at Mark, leaning against the table, puppy-dog eyes and all. “If I don’t speak, how will I feed my family?”

                "Ethan." Mark's somehow still straight-faced as he crosses his arms over his chest. Even when faced with Ethan's whole existence. "Don't ever do that again."

                Silence. And then a chuckle, as if it has better plans, bubbles through Mark's serious facade. "Nope." He turns and walks away from the table in a circle, leaving his piece of art ~~mistake~~ on the table. "Nope nope nope. I can't."

                From where he sits, Ethan laughs as well, burying his head into his haphazard macaroni-art.

                For once, Tyler doesn’t join in. Just returns to his art with a shake of his head. "Why are you both like this?"

                Mark snaps his hands up. "Hey! This wasn’t my fault! Blame Ethan!"

                "What do you mean blame me? What the hell did I do?" Somehow, he acts indignant, as if he weren't the one to say those regrettable words himself. "It's _your_ series!"

                "Oh don't act like I've had control of everything! That ended the moment we started making this!"

                "I thought it ended the moment Ethan decided to drop a whole carton full of eggs in his egg catcher?" Tyler points out.

                "Well, that too!"

                "In my defense,” Ethan starts, hand against his chest. “I had to do it. To avenge my reputation as an Egg-savior."

                'Egg-savior'?” Tyler exclaims, “You laughed maniacally like some sort of demon!"

                "Oh Tyler, my young apprentice. It's all in the drama."

                A beeping interrupts them, along with Amy's voice. "Time!"

                "What? _Really?_ " Mark exclaims. Quietly, as he talks to Amy, Tyler and Ethan go back to their art.

                "I told you that you needed more time. We can always add another 10 minutes."

                "No, no. That's not how we do things here on Markiplier Makes. Alright crew, pack it up."

                Tyler pauses in his gluing of a piece of macaroni. "What are you, a Pirate Lord?"

                "What? No? Why a pirate? Where’d that even come from?"

                He shrugs, gluing down his last piece. "Watched Pirates of the Caribbean last night."

                "First one?" Ethan sprinkles some glitter over his art.

                "Nah the second. Seen the first one too many times."

                "Hey, wait a second. Hold up!" Mark furiously waves his hands. "Stop! Time! Time!"

                "Awww, but I'm not done making Sanik!"

                "Wait, that's what you were making?" Mark places his hands on the table and leans over, staring at Ethan's picture. A monstrosity of a monstrosity. "That is horrifying."

                "Hey, can I see?"

                Ethan passes the piece of paper over to Tyler, who stares at it. "That is the scariest thing I have ever seen. Even scarier than your pie."

                "Aww, even with the glitter?"

                "Somehow I think the glitter makes it worse," Mark says.

                Tyler cringes. "Ouch."

                " _Wow_. Amy, is he always like this?"

                Behind the camera, she shrugs her shoulders and nods. "Unfortunately."

                Mark swings around, stares at his girlfriend with an exaggerated expression of betrayal. "Whoa wha- Hang on a second! I don't deserve this!"

                "Well you shouldn't have insulted my artwork," Ethan replies.

                "Amy?"

                She smiles at him. "He has a point."

                For just a minute, Mark stands there in silence with one hand on his hip and the other thrown out from his side. And then, with a flop of said hand back down against his leg, he mutters, "Betrayed by my own girlfriend. Alright." He presses his face into his hand, other still on his hip. “Since I’ve clearly lost control of this, let’s all take a 5 minute break and then we can come back feeling nice and happy and not mutinous. Sound good?”

                Ethan pops up, hand going to his forehead. “Aye aye captain!”

                Tyler shrugs and stands as well. “Sounds good to me.”

                And with that, the group disperses for their break.

\---

                The light flickers on with the flip of a switch. Mark strolls into the room, laptop under one hand and a warm cup of tea in the other. He sets the tea down on the coffee table, careful not to spill it, and then his laptop. Easing down onto the couch, he flips up the cover and immediately heads for Tumblr.

                What will he see today? That's always the question that crosses his mind when he enters into his tag. Maybe some Darkiplier art after today's video, or a thoughtful meta post or theory? It really was a toss up. There was this distinct possibility of it being overrun with memes too, after all.

                His fanbase wasn't always that predictable to him.

                But of course, all it takes is a glance. And, really, it _is_ only a glance, but that's all Mark needs before he's doing a double-take.

                Instead of a meme, instead of a theory or fan art, its Sean. He stares at him from behind the screen, donning a Cloak hoodie and smiling.

                A screenshot.

                His fandom really did love throwing him for loops. Or maybe someone had mistagged? But, as he scrolls down, there’s more.

                Mark frowns now and starts scrolling faster. His screen is a blur of color, but all of it of the same screenshot, and only sometimes text.

                Fed up and a little apprehensive (after all, the last time something similar had happened it was when Sean had been hit by that car), he stops scrolling and starts reading instead.

                Now, he wasn't a stranger to gossip, let alone gossip about his friends (or even about himself) perpetuated by their dedicated fans or the (usually money-hungry) media. But this was different. "What the hell?"

_‘mark do you know whats up with sean? he hasnt answered and a lot of your fans are scared’_

                Above the plea this time is not a screenshot, but a full gif.

                It was from today's video, he assumes, and most likely from the same time that the screenshot had been. As popular as they were, gif sets and edits and fan arts usually revolved around only new and relevant videos. All that knowledge does is concern him more when he notices it; peeking out underneath said hoodie is a bandage, dark stains creeping against the white.

                Okay. Maybe it was a prop? Though Sean didn’t really have any characters that would maybe need that aside from his...hero character, right? Jackieboy was it? Maybe he was starting some sort of story with him. Maybe he finally made a villain for him to fight.

                But it was bothering him, he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t, and it was hard to tell the intention through a gif.

                So he scrolls down again. It doesn’t take him long to find a clip.

                It’s so slight that Sean doesn’t even acknowledge the camera or the audience as he tugs at his hood. He makes no comment and the action itself is swift. All it takes is 3 seconds of footage, if not even less so, to hide the bandage again.

                Not at all in the style of his usual acting. Not that he knew of, anyways.

                His hand shakes. The accident, then. That had happened during the accident, right? It only made sense. Of course it only made sense.

                But as his friends and family know, when something concerns him, he can't just let it go. Sometimes it's comedic, like when something weird and unexpected happens in a game and he's stuck on loop about it for a good few minutes. When it comes to his friends, however, his worry is insistent and not very comedic at all. Stubborn, even. (And boy was he stubborn, even to a detrimental degree.) They eat away at him for hours on end regardless of whether or not he voices his thoughts to anyone, nagging him. And right now? He’s caught in that loop.

                Because why hadn’t Sean told him or anyone else?

                Okay, so maybe he was being a bit overly-concerned and maybe he was overthinking it. After all, no matter how many times he was in the hospital that doesn't mean he knows all the stages of wound care and the technicalities of different wounds. Maybe neck injuries took a longer time to heal? And Sean himself, no matter how friendly and open he was, could be a very private person when it came down to it.

                ...Of course that was bullshit though and he knew it. Maybe they did take longer to heal, what the fuck did he know? But, from everything he was told, the accident had been a month ago. And at least with his friends, Sean had been open about his injuries from the start.

                Wounds don't bleed after a month of healing, even with stitching, and the sudden secrecy was really weird.

                Not to mention he couldn’t recall such an injury on Monopoly night. Which was saying a lot, considering he remembers almost all of it. _(Sean, inattentive with baggy eyes and pale skin, smiling and laughing and, quite frankly, losing badly as they played. He didn’t seem to care about the actual game, nor did he care about his arm, wrapped from the shoulder down, or the way he’d flinch if he moved in just the wrong way. No, he just cared about their company. And now it’s so different. His bandages, hidden from view, fiddling with the collar of his hoodie, and the way he didn’t mention it, like they weren’t there, like he wasn’t hiding them at all.)_

                And so, before he really even has a chance to think about what he's doing, he's dialing Sean's number. The only natural conclusion to his folly.

_"Mmm’ello?"_

                Oh. Fuck. He had been asleep. "Hey, it's me, Mark. I'm sorry to wake you. Didn't realize how late it was there."

 _"Mm'Mark? Why're ya callin' me? It's like 4 am or som'thin'."_ Something ruffles in the background, crackling in the speaker. Probably some blankets?

                "Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright. How's the recovery going?" Mark stands and paces, but doesn't make to indicate that by keeping his voice soft, casual. Whatever was going on, no need to panic him so early in the morning when he wasn't really even awake yet.

_"Really M'rk? We gotta do this now?"_

                "I know, I know. You're probably real pissed at me right now. Just entertain me for a minute and you can head back to bed, alright? I just want to see how you're doing. I'm a little worried."

 _"God, y'sound like Robin."_ It's silent for all of half a second before Mark hears ruffling again, this time louder and almost...sharp? _"Hold on a second."_ Mark blinks. Sean’s voice is suddenly clear, no longer muffled and groggy. As if he had never been asleep at all. _"Why're you worried?"_

Stopping in his pacing, Mark is caught unprepared at the sudden demeanor shift. "I-I saw that you're back to making videos again."

_"Really? That's all?"_

                "I- Well, this might sound a little crazy but I thought I saw your neck bleeding in today's video? I mean it's all over Tumblr." He doesn't know what it is that is making him so hesitant, but somehow it gives him a bad feeling. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called. I was probably just seeing things. Go back to bed Sean."

                It feels like a good 10 minutes before Sean even replies again. He counts the fibers on the floor, tries to stay patient and listen, in case he had gone back to sleep and didn't say anything.

                In reality, it takes less than 3. _"I get it. Seriously, I'm fine you doofus. You’re just overreacting.”_

                "O-Okay. Okay. I'll trust you on that. So there hasn't been any complications or...?"

_"Nope, been feelin' great, actually. Like my good ol' Irish self."_

                Mark chuckles. "So you’re feeling like you can chug 20 beers and kick some dude's ass?"

_"Hell yeah! What else did ya think I mean?"_

                "Damn, okay, okay. I get it. I can’t argue with that. Anyways I'll let you head back to bed, alright? Sorry again for uh waking you up like that."

_"Dude I told ye it's fine."_

                "I know, I know. Talk to you later Sean."

                All it takes is a tap on the screen for the call to end but he's somehow left feeling dissatisfied. Sean had answered all his questions and he wasn't the type to lie, and yet it felt like he had been led on somehow.

                With a frown Mark flicks his finger and starts scrolling down his contacts. When he reaches the person he wants to text, he taps on it and sends one simple message:

**{Hey when you were with Sean a week ago, was his neck hurt at all?}**

                The reply, despite expecting it not to be, was instantaneous.

_{he hasn’t told you?}_

                His frown deepens and that bad feeling turns into a black hole in his gut at Robin's reply. So Sean was hiding it. Why?

**{No.}**

_{and you asked?}_

                Of course he had. Wasn't that obvious?

**{Yep.}**

                His annoyance evaporates upon Robin's next reply, leaving a small feeling of guilt and a swell of gratitude in its place.

_{call me tomorrow and I’ll explain what I can.}_

                Mark sends a quick reply back and slumps back onto his couch. Thank God.

                Tomorrow felt like a million years away.

                Glasses skewing, he runs his hands over his face. It wasn’t the fact that Sean was injured that made him so anxious over it, really. Injuries happen all the time and Sean was an adult. He could take care of himself.

                But the secrecy? It was the secrecy that was worrying. Why didn’t he want them to know? Why didn’t he tell his fans?

                ...Why didn’t Robin edit out that clip?

                Tomorrow. It all comes down to tomorrow. But that’s fine. He’ll get his answers. He’ll get his answers and help in any way he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of the wise, don't use <> these arrows to indicate texting. Ao3 does not like that because of how it handles formatting and, in retrospect, I should have realized that. So don't make my mistake and save yourself 10 minutes of trying to figure out what went wrong.
> 
> Credit to unicornholly for beta'ing.


End file.
